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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.    JOHN  C.   ROSE 


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•Knickerbocker  1Rugc;ets 


Nugget— "  A  diminutive  mass  of  precious  metal. 


42   VOLUMES    NOW    READY. 
For  full  list  see  end  of  this  volume. 


TALES 


BY 


HEINRICH  ZSCHOKKE 


NEW   YORK  AND    LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 
Ube  Tfcnicfccrbocfcer  ipreee 


Electrotyped,  Printed  and  Bound  by 

Ube  Ikntckerbocfeer  press,  DAew  ]i)ork 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

About  the  Author i 

Adventures  of  a  New-Year's  Eve.    Translated 

by  Parke  Godwin n 

The  Broken  Pitcher.    Translated  by  Parke  God- 
win      89 

Jonathan  Frock.     Translated  by  Parke  Godwin,     125 
Walpurgis    Night.      Translated    by  William    P 

Prentice 231 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE. 


IT  has  seemed  desirable  to  include  in  the 
series  of  "  Knickerbocker  Nuggets  "  some 
specimens  of  the  work  of  Heinrich  Zschokke, 
whose  "Tales"  have  for  nearly  a  century  been 
accepted  on  the  Continent  as  belonging  to 
standard  German  fiction,  and  as  characterized 
also  by  a  very  definite  and  original  individuality 
of  their  own. 

The  entire  series  comprises  about  fifty  stories, 
and  from  these  four  have  been  selected  which 
were  thought  to  be  fairly  representative  of  the 
author's  more  noteworthy  work  and  character- 
istic examples  of  his  several  classes  of  fiction. 
The  Tales  here  presented  are  also  free  from  the 
diffuseness  which  mars  the  literary  style  and 
the  interest  of  some  of  Zschokke's  longer  and 
otherwise  valuable  compositions,  such  as  "  The 
Princess  of  Wolfenbiittel  "  and  "  Illumination." 

The  publishers  consider  themselves  fortunate 
in  having  available  for  the  first  three  stories  in 
their  present  collection  the  excellent  transla- 


£scboKfcc'6  £aies 


tions  prepared  in  T845  for  "  Putnam's  Library 
of  Choice  Reading,"  by  Mr.  Parke  Godwin. 
For  the  graceful  rendering  of  the  "  Walpurgis 
Night,"  a  story  which  has  not  heretofore  been 
printed  in  English,  they  are  indebted  to  the 
courtesy  of  Mr.  William  P.  Prentice,  for  whose 
friendly  aud  pertinent  suggestions  in  connec- 
tion with  the  preparation  of  the  present  volume 
they  desire  to  express  their  acknowledgments. 


New  York,  July  1,  1889. 


ABOUT  THE   AUTHOR. 


HBINRICH  ZSCHOKKE  is  by  birth  a  Ger- 
man, his  eyes  having  opened  to  the  light 
in  Madgeburg,  in  Prussia,  somewhere  about  the 
year  1774 — the  same  year  that  a  comet  famous 
among  the  astronomers  appeared.  His  father 
had  acquired  a  considerable  fortune  by  selling 
cloth  to  the  Prussian  army  during  the  Seven 
Years'  War.  His  mother  died  while  he  was 
yet  a  child.  The  loss  of  the  latter  parent  seems 
to  have  produced  a  profound  impression  on  his 
mind,  and  early  inclined  him  to  religious  med- 
itation and  inquiry. 

He  had  little  relish  for  the  so-called  instruc- 
tion given  at  school,  and  indeed  such  was  his 
apparent  stupidity  that  the  master  sent  him 
away  before  his  term  had  expired,  to  save  the 
reputation  of  his  academy.  Yet  the  lad,  with 
all  his  stupidity,  was  a  most  diligent  reader,  and 
it  was  afterwards  discovered,  not  by  his  teacher, 
that  he  had  carried  with  him  from  the  school 
a  larger  amount,  perhaps,  of  deep  and  varied 
learning   than   any  of  his   companions.     It  is 


^scbofefce's  £ales 


true,  he  began  with  such  works  as  "  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  he  continued  through  all  the  Voyages 
and  Travels  he  could  lay  his  hand  upon,  but  he 
ended — strange  as  it  is — a  most  correct  and  ac- 
complished classical  scholar.  At  the  time  that 
his  school-books  were  dreadful  annoyances,  he 
was  drinking  from  the  richest  springs  of  litera- 
ture in  his  own  and  foreign  tongues. 

There  was  another  reason  why  Zschokke  did 
not  advance  as  rapidly  as  others  with  his  regu- 
lar studies,  which  was,  that  he  had  already  be- 
gun to  think,  and  his  mind  and  heart  and  soul 
were  absorbed  in  pondering  the  great  questions 
of  this  mysterious  existence  of  ours.  At  first  he 
thought  that  he  had  solved  the  whole  difficulty 
by  supposing  that  the  vast  universe  was  a  great 
eight-day  clock,  in  which  nothing  was  alive  ex- 
cept God  and  himself — little  Heinrich  Zschokke, 
— all  the  rest  being  wound  up  and  set  a-going 
on  the  most  skilful  mechanical  principles.  But 
he  soon  found  that  this  kind  of  a  universe  would 
not  do ;  indeed,  it  did  not  satisfy  his  own  child- 
ish mind.  Day  and  night  his  imagination  was 
filled  with  the  most  extraordinary  fancies  in  re- 
gard to  these  matters,  and  he  shut  himself  in  the 
deepest  solitude  to  consider  them  ;  and  they 
were  banished  only  by  the  calls  which  the  ne- 
cessities of  life  made  upon  him  for  active  exer- 
tion. 


Btxntt  tbe  Butbor 


His  first  step  in  life  was  to  go,  during  the 
year  1788,  to  Mecklenburg  Schwerin,  where  he 
knew  of  an  old  friend  that  was  an  actor,  and 
whom  he  proposed  to  join.  Learning,  however, 
that  his  services  would  not  be  needed  at  the 
theatre,  even  in  the  capacity  of  candle-snuffer, 
he  found  himself  in  the  world,  poor,  forlorn, 
and  miserable  enough — in  fact,  too  miserable, 
he  says,  to  think  of  any  thing  more  agreeable 
than  the  shooting  of  himself  through  the  head. 
But  it  happened  that  a  person,  who  had  heard 
him  talking  with  his  actor  friend,  was  much 
struck  with  his  observations,  and  sought  him 
out  to  ask  him  to  become  a  private  tutor  in  his 
family.  This  request  he  accepted,  and  for  a 
while  he  enjoyed  unbounded  freedom  and  kindly 
social  intercourse. 

Still  his  hankering  after  the  theatre  contin- 
ued, and  he  subsequently  obtained  a  place  as 
correspondent  and  poet  of  the  theatre  at 
Prenzlau.  He  accompanied  the  actors  in  their 
various  country  excursions,  and  seems  to  have 
entered  into  their  wild  and  boisterous  pranks 
among  the  country  people  with  great  hearti- 
ness. He  amended  tragedies,  patched  up  farces, 
and  re-wrote  bloody  melodramas,  to  the  great 
delight  of  his  merry  friends,  and  his  own  emol- 
ument. Yet,  what  was  more  important,  he  con- 
trived to  prepare  himself  for  entering  one  of  the 


%&cbok\\e'6  {Tales 


higher  universities,  which  he  succeeded  in  do- 
ing, and  afterwards  obtained  the  highest  rank 
as  a  student.  He  there  also  wrote  a  drama 
called  "Abellind,"  which  speedily  became  a 
popular  favorite  in  all  the  playhouses  of  Ger- 
many, and  acquired  no  little  reputation. 

During  the  whole  of  his  collegiate  course, 
Zschokke  was  deeply  troubled  with  religious 
doubts  and  difficulties,  but  he  became  a  disciple 
of  the  philosophy  of  Kant,  and  thereby  strength- 
ened his  convictions  of  Christianity  sufficiently 
to  enable  him  to  take  his  degrees  as  a  clergy- 
man, and  to  preach  very  acceptably  to  his  old 
friends  at  Magdeburg. 

In  1795  Zschokke  visited  Switzerland,  a  coun- 
try which  he  had  long  sighed  after,  and  becom- 
ing interested,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  in 
the  absorbing  political  disputes  of  the  people, 
he  selected  it  as  a  place  of  residence.  He  was 
chosen  head-master  of  the  Seminary  of  Reich- 
nau,  which  at  once  placed  him  in  a  position  to 
follow  his  cherished  studies  and  do  good  to 
mankind.  His  political  sympathies  were  en- 
tirely on  the  side  of  popular  freedom,  and  in  his 
autobiography  he  relates,  with  great  modesty, 
the  almost  incredible  labors  he  performed  in 
improving  the  condition  of  the  lower  people,  in 
animating  the  hearts  of  the  patriots,  in  writing 
for  the  moral  and  religious  instruction  of  all 


Bbout  tbe  Butbot 


classes,  while  he  was  at  the  same  time  patiently 
instructing  a  numerous  family  of  youth.  His 
public  services  were  of  the  most  disinterested 
and  useful  kind,  impelled  by  a  vehement  en- 
thusiasm for  the  advancement  of  his  fellow- 
men,  yet  controlled  by  remarkable  sagacity  and 
calmness  of  judgment.  Among  the  poorer  sort 
of  people  he  was  almost  worshipped  as  a  bene- 
factor— all  the  while  that  the  more  learned  and 
idle  classes  were  instructed  by  grave  histories, 
or  moved  alternately  to  laughter  or  tears  by  the 
most  winning  and  graceful  fictions. 

Zschokke's  literary  labors  comprised  the 
"  Schwitzer  Bote,"  a  periodical  undertaken  to 
diffuse  useful  knowledge  among  the  agricultural 
population  in  regard  to  their  particular  branch 
of  industry  ;  a  "  History  of  the  Princes  and 
People  of  Bavaria,"  undertaken  at  the  instance 
of  the  celebrated  historian,  Joannes  Von  Mul- 
ler  ;  a  "History  of  Switzerland  "  ;  the  "Mis- 
cellany," a  periodical  work  on  physical  science, 
addressed  to  the  Swiss  people  ;  some  eight  or 
ten  novels,  and  about  fifty  tales,  and  a  book  of 
religious  devotion,  called  "Hours  of  Medita- 
tion," which  was  published  at  intervals,  in 
twelve  volumes,  and  has  already  gone  through 
twenty-seven  editions.  Some  of  his  tales  have 
reached  the  fortieth  regular  edition. 

Zschokke,  it  has  been  remarked,  was  greatly 


^scbofcfce's  £ales 


troubled  with  religious  misgivings.  He  tried  to 
read  and  reason  them  down  ;  he  found  a  tempo- 
rary support  in  the  philosophy  of  Kant ;  but  it 
was  all  in  vain.  Only  after  he  had  engaged 
earnestly  in  patriotic  exertion  ;  only  after  he 
gave  himself  to  deeds  of  active  benevolence, 
did  these  distressing  feelings  leave  him,  and 
the  gospel  of  Christ  reveal  itself  to  his  mind  as 
in  truth  Divine.  He  passed  from  the  dark  and 
tempestuous  abyss  on  which  he  had  floated,  up 
into  the  serene  heaven  of  a  living  Faith,  not 
through  the  narrow  gateway  of  a  wretched 
Logic,  but  along  the  broad  and  beautiful  road 
of  actual  Work.  When  he  ceased  to  wrestle 
with  the  grim  spectres  of  the  imagination,  and 
addressed  himself  with  true  manly  earnestness 
to  the  great  business  of  life,  he  found  peace. 
Traces  of  his  feelings  in  his  various  spiritual 
moods  will  be  found  throughout  his   fictions. 

In  1805  our  author  was  married,  and  still  lives 
at  a  simple  and  beautiful  country-place  near 
Aarau,  surrounded  by  a  large  family,  and  uni- 
versally esteemed  wherever  he  is  known.  In 
the  seventy-fourth  year  of  his  age,  after  an  in- 
tensely exciting  but  useful  life,  he  awaits  with 
calmness  the  summons  to  the  eternal  world.* 

Zschokke's  literary  works  have  been  gener- 
ally undertaken  with  no  view  to  either  wealth 
*  He  died  in  1848. 


Bfoout  tbe  Butbcr 


or  fame,  having  been  mostly  suggested  from 
time  to  time  by  the  incidents  of  his  daily  expe- 
rience. His  romances,  particularly,  are  the  re- 
sults of  moments  of  recreation  when  he  would 
relieve  his  mind  from  severer  tasks.  Yet  I 
scarcely  know  a  writer  who  has  been  more  suc- 
cessful in  this  walk  of  art.  Of  the  forty  or  fifty 
tales  of  his  which  I  have  read,  no  two  are  alike 
— so  great  is  his  variety, — yet  all  are  marked  by 
an  easy  grace  of  manner,  purity  of  language, 
and  rapid  and  interesting  incidents.  The  merely 
humorous  among  them,  irresistibly  droll  as 
many  of  them  are,  can  hardly  offend  any  taste, 
while  they  often  illustrate  important  truths. 
But  the  more  serious  will  be  found  to  be  per- 
vaded by  a  profound  religious  philosophy — 
combining  the  broadest  liberality  with  the  finest 
sympathies  and  the  noblest  aspirations. 

P.  G. 

March,  1845. 


ADVENTURES   OF   A   NEW-YEAR'S    EVE 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  NEW-YEAR'S   EVE. 


MOTHER  KATE,  the  watchman's  wife,  at 
nine  o'clock  on  New  Year's  eve  opened 
her  little  window,  and  put  out  her  head  into  the 
night  air.  The  snow  was  reddened  by  the  light 
from  the  window  as  it  fell  in  silent  heavy  flakes 
upon  the  street.  She  observed  the  crowds  of 
happy  people,  hurrying  to  and  fro  from  the 
brilliantly  lighted  shops  with  presents,  or  pour- 
ing out  of  the  various  inns  and  coffee-houses, 
and  going  to  the  dances  and  other  entertain- 
ments with  which  the  New  Year  is  married  to 
the  Old  in  joy  and  pleasure.  But  when  a  few 
cold  flakes  had  lighted  on  her  nose  she  drew 
back  her  head,  closed  the  window,  and  said  to 
her  husband  :  ' '  Gottlieb,  stay  at  home,  and  let 
Philip  watch  for  thee  to-night ;  for  the  snow 
comes  as  fast  as  it  can  from  Heaven,  and  thou 
knowest  the  cold  does  thy  old  bones  no  good. 


12  £scbokke'6  Gales 

The  streets  will  be  gay  to-night.  There  seems 
dancing  and  feasting  in  every  house,  masquer- 
aders  are  going  about,  and  Philip  will  enjoy  the 
sport." 

Old  Gottlieb  nodded  his  assent.  "I  am  will- 
ing, Kate,"  he  said.  "  My  barometer,  the  old 
wound  above  my  knee,  has  given  me  warning 
the  last  two  days  of  a  change  of  weather.  It  is 
only  right  that  my  son  should  aid  me  in  a 
service,  to  which  he  will  be  my  successor." 

We  must  give  the  reader  to  understand,  that 
old  Gottlieb  had  been  a  sergeant  of  cavalry  in 
one  of  the  king's  regiments,  until  he  was  made 
a  cripple  for  life  by  a  musket-ball,  as  he  was  the 
first  mounting  the  walls  of  a  hostile  fort  in  a 
battle  for  his  fatherland.  The  officer  who  com- 
manded the  attack  received  the  cross  of  honor 
on  the  battlefield  for  his  heroism  and  was 
advanced  in  the  service  ;  while  Gottlieb  was 
fain  to  creep  homewards  on  a  pair  of  crutches. 
From  pity  they  made  him  a  schoolmaster,  for 
he  was  intelligent,  liked  to  read,  and  wrote  a 
good  hand.  But  when  the  school  increased  they 
took  it  away  from  him  to  provide  for  a  young 
man  who  could  do  none  of  these  as  well  as  he, 
merely  because  he  was  a  godson  of  one  of  the 
trustees.  However,  they  promoted  Gottlieb  to 
the  post  of  watchman,  with  the  reversion  of  it  to 
his  son  Philip,  who  had  in  the  meantime  bound 


n  Ittew  leav'6  JEve  13 

himself  to  a  gardener.  It  was  only  the  good 
housewifery  of  Mistress  Katharine,  and  the 
extreme  moderation  of  old  Gottlieb,  that  en- 
abled them  to  live  happily  on  the  little  they 
possessed.  Philip  gave  his  services  to  the 
gardener  for  his  board  and  lodging,  but  he 
occasionally  received  very  fine  presents  when  he 
carried  home  flowers  to  the  rich  people  of  the 
town.  He  was  a  fresh  handsome  young  fellow, 
of  six-and-twenty.  Noble  ladies  often  gave  him 
sundry  extra  dollars  for  his  fine  looks,  a  thing 
they  would  never  have  thought  of  doing  for  an 
ugly  face.  Mrs.  Kate  had  already  put  on  her 
cloak  to  go  to  the  gardener's  house  to  fetch  nel- 
son, when  he  entered  the  apartment. 

"  Father,"  said  Philip,  giving  a  hand  to  both 
father  and  mother,  "it  's  snowing,  and  the 
snow  won't  do  you  much  good.  I  '11  take  the 
watch  to-night,  and  you  can  get  to  bed." 

"You  're  a  good  boy,"  said  old  Gottlieb. 

"And  then  I  've  been  thinking,"  continued 
Philip,  "  that  as  to-morrow  is  New  Year's  day,  I 
may  come  and  dine  with  you  and  make  myself 
happy.  Mother  perhaps  has  no  joint  in  the 
kitchen,  and " 

"No,"  interrupted  the  mother,  "we  've  no 
joint,  but  then  we  have  a  pound  and  a  half  of 
venison  ;  with  potatoes  for  a  relish,  and  a  little 
rice  with  laurel  leaves  for  a  soup,  and  two  flasks 


14  %schokkef6  Gales 

of  beer  to  drink.  Only  come,  Philip,  for  we 
shall  live  finely  to-morrow  !  Next  week  we 
may  do  better,  for  the  New  Year's  gifts  will  be 
coming  in,  and  Gottlieb's  share  will  be  some- 
thing !  Oh  !  we  shall  live  grandly." 

"Well,  so  much  the  better,  dear  mother," 
said  Philip  ;  "  but  have  you  paid  the  rent  of  the 
cottage  yet  ? ' ' 

Old  Gottlieb  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Philip  laid  a  purse  upon  the  table. 

"There  are  two-and-twenty  dollars  that  I 
have  saved.  I  can  do  very  well  without  them  ; 
take  them  for  a  New  Year's  gift,  and  then  we 
can  all  three  enter  on  the  new  year  without 
a  debt  or  a  care.  God  grant  that  we  may  end  it 
in  health  and  happiness  !  Heaven  in  its  good- 
ness will  provide  for  both  you  and  me  !  " 

Tears  came  into  Mother  Katharine's  eyes  as 
she  kissed  her  son  ;  old  Gottlieb  said  :  "  Philip, 
you  are  the  prop  and  stay  of  our  old  age.  Con- 
tinue to  be  honest  and  good,  and  to  love  your 
parents,  so  will  a  blessing  rest  on  you.  I 
can  give  you  nothing  for  a  New  Year's  gift,  but 
a  prayer  that  you  may  keep  your  heart  pure  and 
true — this  is  in  your  power — you  will  be  rich 
enough — for  a  clear  conscience  is  a  Heaven  in 
itself." 

So  said  old  Gottlieb,  and  then  he  wrote  down 
in  an  account-book,  the  sum  of  two-and-twenty 
dollars  that  his  son  had  given  him. 


B  1ftew  gear's  Ev>e  15 

"All  that  you  have  cost  me  in  childhood 
is  now  nearly  paid  up.  Your  savings  amount  to 
three  hundred  and  seventeen  dollars  which  I 
have  received." 

"Three  hundred  and  seventeen  dollars!" 
cried  Mistress  Katharine  in  the  greatest  amaze- 
ment— and  then  turning  to  Philip  with  a  voice 
full  of  tenderness,  "Ah,  Philip,"  she  said, 
"  thou  grievest  me.  Child  of  my  heart  !  Yes, 
indeed  thou  dost.  Hadst  thou  saved  that 
money  for  thyself  thou  might  have  bought  some 
land  with  it,  and  started  as  gardener  on  thy  own 
account,  and  married  Rose.  Now  that  is  im- 
possible. But  take  comfort,  Philip.  We  are 
old,  and  thou  will  not  have  to  support  us  long." 

"Mother,"  exclaimed  Philip,  and  he  frowned 
a  little;  "what  are  you  thinking  of?  Rose 
is  dear  to  me  as  my  life,  but  I  would  give  up  a 
hundred  Roses  rather  than  desert  you  and  my 
father.  I  should  never  find  any  other  parents 
in  this  world  but  you,  but  there  are  plenty  of 
Roses,  although  I  would  have  none  but  Mrs. 
Bittner's  Rose,  were  there  even  ten  thousand 
others." 

"You  are  right,  Philip,"  said  Gottlieb; 
"loving  and  marrying  are  not  in  the  command- 
ments— but  to  honor  your  father  and  mother  is 
a  duty  and  commandment.  To  give  up  strong 
passions  and  inclinations  for  the  happiness  of 


16  %6chokke's  Gales 

your  parents  is  the  truest  gratitude  of  a  son.  It 
will  gain  you  the  blessing  from  above  : — it  will 
make  you  rich  in  your  own  heart." 

"  If  it  were  only  not  too  long  for  Rose  to 
wait,"  said  Mrs.  Katharine,  "or  if  you  could 
give  up  the  engagement  altogether  !  For  Rose 
is  a  pretty  girl,  that  can't  be  denied  ;  and 
though  she  is  poor,  there  will  be  no  want  of 
wooers.  She  is  virtuous  and  understands 
housekeeping." 

"  Never  fear,  mother,"  replied  Philip  ;  "  Rose 
has  solemnly  sworn  to  marry  no  man  but  me  ; 
and  that  is  sufficient.  Her  mother  has  nothing 
to  object  to  me.  And  if  I  was  in  business  and 
had  money  enough  to  keep  a  wife  with,  Rose 
would  be  my  wife  to-morrow.  The  only  annoy- 
ance we  have  is,  that  her  mother  will  not  let  us 
meet  so  often  as  we  wish.  She  says  frequent 
meetings  do  no  good  ;  but  I  differ  from  her,  and 
so  does  Rose — for  we  think  meeting  often  does 
us  both  a  great  deal  of  good.  And  we  have 
agreed  to  meet  to-night,  at  twelve  o'clock,  at 
the  great  door  of  St.  Gregory's  Church,  for  Rose 
is  bringing  in  the  year  at  a  friend's  house  ;  and 
I  am  to  take  her  home." 

In  the  midst  of  such  conversation  the  clock 
of  the  neighboring  tower  struck  three  quarters, 
and  Philip  took  his  father's  great-coat  from  the 
warm  stove  where  Katharine  had  carefully  laid 


B  1Rew  gear's  JBvc  17 

it,  wrapped  himself  in  it,  and  taking  the 
lanthorn  and  staff,  and  wishing  his  parents 
good-night,  proceeded  to  his  post. 


II. 

Philip  stalked  majestically  through  the 
snow-covered  streets  of  the  capital,  where  as 
many  people  were  still  visible  as  in  the  middle 
of  the  day.  Carriages  were  rattling  in  all  direc- 
tions, the  houses  were  all  brilliantly  lighted. 
Our  watchman  enjoyed  the  scene,  he  sang  his 
verses  at  ten  o'clock,  and  blew  his  horn  lustily 
in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Gregory's  Church, 
with  many  a  thought  on  Rose,  who  was  then 
with  her  friend.  "  Now,  she  hears  me,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "now  she  thinks  on  me,  and 
forgets  the  scene  around  her.  I  hope  she  won't 
fail  me  at  twelve  o'clock  at  the  church  door." 
And  when  he  had  gone  his  round,  he  always 
returned  to  the  dear  house  and  looked  up  at  the 
lighted  window.  Sometimes  he  saw  female 
figures,  and  his  heart  beat  quick  at  the  sight ; 
sometimes  he  fancied  he  saw  Rose  herself;  and 
sometimes  he  studied  the  long  shadows  thrown 
on  the  wall  or  the  ceiling  to  discover  w7hich  of 
them  was  Rose's  and  to  fancy  what  she  was 
doing.  It  was  certainly  not  a  very  pleasant 
employment   to  stand   in  frost  and  snow    and 


18  %ecbok\\ef6  Gales 

look  up  at  a  window ;  but  what  care  lovers  for 
frost  and  snow  ?  And  watchmen  are  as  fiery  and 
romantic  lovers  as  ever  were  the  knights  of 
ancient  ballads. 

He  only  felt  the  effects  of  the  frost  when,  at 
eleven  o'clock,  he  had  to  set  out  upon  his  round. 
His  teeth  chattered  with  cold  ;  he  could  scarcely 
call  the  hour  or  sound  his  horn.  He  would 
willingly  have  gone  into  a  beer-house  to  warm 
himself  at  the  fire.  As  he  was  pacing  through 
a  lonely  by-street,  he  met  a  man  with  a  black 
half-mask  on  his  face,  enveloped  in  a  fire-col- 
ored silken  mantle,  and  wearing  on  his  head  a 
magnificent  hat  turned  up  at  one  side,  and  fan- 
tastically ornamented  with  a  number  of  high 
and  waving  plumes. 

Philip  endeavored  to  escape  the  mask,  but  in 
vain.  The  stranger  blocked  up  his  path  and 
said  :  "  Ha  !  thou  art  a  fine  fellow  ;  I  like  thy 
phiz  amazingly.  Where  are  you  going,  eh  ?  I 
say,  where  are  you  going  ?  ' ' 

"To  Mary  Street,"  replied  Philip.  "I  am 
going  to  call  the  hour  there." 

"  Enchanting  !  "  answered  the  mask.  "I  '11 
hear  thee  :  I  '11  go  with  thee.  Come  along, 
thou  foolish  fellow,  and  let  me  hear  thee,  and 
mind  thou  singest  well,  for  I  am  a  good  judge. 
Canst  thou  sing  me  a  jovial  song  ?  " 

Philip  saw  that  his  companion  was  of  high 


B  1Rew  lear'6  JEve  19 

rank  and  a  little  tipsy,  and  answered  :  "I  sing 
better  over  a  glass  of  wine  in  a  warm  room, 
than  when  up  to  my  waist  in  snow." 

They  had  now  reached  Mary  Street,  and 
Philip  sang  and  blew  the  horn. 

"  Ha  !  that  's  but  a  poor  performance,"  ex- 
claimed the  mask,  who  had  accompanied  him 
thither.  "  Give  me  the  horn  !  I  shall  blow  so 
well  that  you  '11  half  die  with  delight." 

Philip  yielded  to  the  mask's  wishes,  and  let 
him  sing  the  verses  and  blow.  For  four  or  five 
times  all  was  done  as  if  the  stranger  had  been 
a  watchman  all  his  life.  He  dilated  most  elo- 
quently on  the  joys  of  such  an  occupation,  and 
was  so  inexhaustible  in  his  own  praises  that 
he  made  Philip  laugh  at  his  extravagance.  His 
spirits  evidently  owed  no  small  share  of  their 
elevation  to  an  extra  glass  of  wine. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  treasure,  I  've  a  great 
fancy  to  be  a  watchman  myself  for  an  hour  or 
two.  If  I  don't  do  it  now,  I  shall  never  arrive 
at  that  honor  in  the  course  of  my  life.  Give 
me  your  great-coat  and  wide-brimmed  hat,  and 
take  my  domino.  Go  into  a  beer-house  and 
take  a  bottle  at  my  expense  ;  and  when  you 
have  finished  it,  come  again  and  give  me  back 
my  masking-gear.  You  shall  have  a  couple  of 
dollars  for  your  trouble.  What  do  you  think, 
my  treasure  ?  ' ' 


20  Z^cbokfce's  tales 

But  Philip  did  not  like  this  arrangement.  At 
last,  however,  at  the  solicitations  of  the  mask, 
he  capitulated  as  they  entered  a  dark  lane. 
Philip  was  half  frozen  ;  a  warm  drink  would  do 
him  good,  and  so  would  a  warm  fire.  He  agreed 
for  one  half  hour  to  give  up  his  watchmanship, 
which  would  be  till  twelve  o'clock.  Exactly  at 
that  time  the  stranger  was  to  come  to  the  great 
door  of  St.  Gregory's  and  give  back  the  great- 
coat, horn,  and  staff,  taking  back  his  own  silk 
mantle,  hat,  and  domino.  Philip  also  told  him 
the  four  streets  in  which  he  was  to  call  the 
hour.  The  mask  was  in  raptures:  "Treasure 
of  my  heart,  I  could  kiss  thee  if  thou  wert  not 
a  dirty,  miserable  fellow  !  But  thou  shalt  have 
naught  to  regret,  if  thou  art  at  the  church  at 
twelve,  for  I  will  give  thee  money  for  a  supper 
then.  Joy  !  I  am  a  watchman  !  "  The  mask 
looked  a  watchman  to  the  life,  while  Philip  was 
completely  disguised  with  the  half-mask  tied 
over  his  face,  the  bonnet  ornamented  with  a 
buckle  of  brilliants  on  his  head,  and  the  red 
silk  mantle  thrown  around  him.  When  he  saw 
his  companion  commence  his  walk  he  be- 
gan to  fear  that  the  young  gentleman  might 
compromise  the  dignity  of  the  watchman. 
He  therefore  addressed  him  once  more,  and 
said  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  abuse  my  good  nature 


%  IRew  gear's  JEve  21 

and  do  any  mischief  or  misbehave  in  any  way, 
as  it  may  cost  me  the  situation." 

"Hallo!"  answered  the  stranger.  "What 
are  you  talking  about  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  my  duty  ?  Off  with  you  this  moment,  or 
I  '11  let  you  feel  the  weight  of  my  staff.  But 
come  to  St.  Gregory's  Church  and  give  me  back 
my  clothes  at  twelve  o'clock.  Good-bye.  This 
is  glorious  fun  !  " 

The  new  guardian  of  the  streets  walked  on- 
ward with  all  the  dignity  becoming  his  office, 
while  Philip  hurried  to  a  neighboring  tavern. 

III. 

As  he  was  passing  the  door  of  the  royal  pal- 
ace, he  was  laid  hold  of  by  a  person  in  a  mask 
who  had  alighted  from  a  carriage.  Philip 
turned  round,  and  in  a  low  whispering  voice 
asked  what  the  stranger  wanted. 

"  My  gracious  lord,"  answered  the  mask,  "  in 
your  revery  you  have  passed  the  door.  Will 
your  Royal  Highness ' ' 

"What?  Royal  Highness?"  said  Philip, 
laughing.  "  I  am  no  highness.  What  put  that 
in  your  head?" 

The  mask  bowed  respectfully,  and  pointed  to 
the  brilliant  buckle  in  Philip's  hat.  "I  ask 
your  pardon  if  I  have  betrayed  your  disguise. 


^scbofcfce's  Gales 


But,  in  whatever  character  you  assume,  your 
noble  bearing  will  betray  you.  Will  you  con- 
descend to  lead  the  way  ?  Does  your  Highness 
intend  to  dance  ?  " 

"I?  To  dance?"  replied  Philip.  "  No— 
you  see  I  have  boots  on." 

"  To  play,  then  ?  "  inquired  the  mask. 

"Still  less.  I  have  brought  no  money  with 
me,"  said  the  assistant  watchman. 

"  Good  heaven  !  "  exclaimed  the  mask. 
"  Command  my  purse — all  that  I  possess  is  at 
your  service  !  "  Saying  this,  he  forced  a  full 
purse  into  Philip's  hand. 

"But  do  you  know  who  I  am?"  inquired 
Philip,  and  rejected  the  purse. 

The  mask  whispered  with  a  bow  of  profound 
obeisance  :  "His  Royal  Highness,  Prince  Ju- 
lian." 

At  this  moment  Philip  heard  his  deputy  in 
an  adjoining  street  calling  the  hour  very  dis- 
tinctly, and  he  now  became  aware  of  his  meta- 
morphosis. Prince  Julian,  who  was  well  known 
in  the  capital  as  an  amiable,  wild,  and  good- 
hearted  young  man,  had  been  the  person  with 
whom  he  had  changed  his  clothes.  "Now, 
then,"  thought  Philip,  "  as  he  enacts  the  watch- 
man so  well,  I  will  not  shame  his  rank  ;  I  '11 
see  if,  for  one  half  hour,  I  can't  be  the  prince. 
If  I  make  any  mistake,  he  has  himself  to  blame 


B  Hew  fear's  JBvc  23 

for  it."  He  wrapped  the  red  silken  mantle 
closer  round  him,  took  the  offered  purse,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  and  .said  :  "  Who  are  you,  mask  ? 
I  will  return  your  gold  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  the  Chamberlain  Pilzou." 

"  Good— lead  the  way— I  '11  follow."  The 
Chamberlain  obeyed,  and  tripped  up  the  marble 
stairs,  Philip  coming  close  behind  him.  They 
entered  an  immense  hall  lighted  by  a  thousand 
tapers  and  dazzling  chandeliers,  which  were  re- 
flected by  brilliant  mirrors.  A  confused  crowd 
of  maskers  jostled  each  other,  sultans,  Tyrolese, 
harlequins,  knignts  in  armor,  nuns,  goddesses, 
satyrs,  monks,  Jews,  Medes,  and  Persians. 
Philip  for  a  while  was  abashed  and  blinded. 
Such  splendor  he  had  never  dreamt  of.  In  the 
middle  of  the  hall  the  dance  was  carried  on  with 
hundreds  of  people  to  the  music  of  a  full  band. 
Philip,  whom  the  heat  of  the  apartment  recov- 
ered from  his  frozen  state,  was  so  bewildered  with 
the  scene  that  he  could  scarcely  nod  his  head 
as  different  masks  addressed  him,  some  confi- 
dentially, others  deferentially. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  hazard  table?"  whis- 
pered the  Chamberlain,  who  stood  beside  him, 
and  who  Philip  now  saw  was  dressed  as  a  Brah- 
min. 

"Let  me  get  unthawed  first,"  answered 
Philip  ;  "Iaman  icicle  at  present." 


24  ^scbofcfce's  {Tales 

"A  glass  of  warm  punch?"  inquired  the 
Brahmin,  and  led  him  into  the  refreshment- 
room.  The  pseudo-prince  did  not  wait  for  a 
second  invitation,  but  emptied  one  glass  after 
the  other  in  short  time.  The  punch  was  good, 
and  it  spread  its  genial  warmth  through  Philip's 
veins. 

"How  is  it  you  don't  dance  to-night,  Brah- 
min ?  "  he  asked  of  his  companion,  when  they 
returned  into  the  hall.  The  Brahmin  sighed, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  no  pleasure  now  in  the  dance. 
Gayety  is  distasteful  to  me.  The  only  person  I 
care  to  dance  with — the  Countess  Bonau — I 
thought  she  loved  me  ;  our  families  offered  no 
objection — but  all  at  once  she  broke  with  me." 
His  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"  How  ?  "  said  Philip,  "  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing." 

"You  never  heard  of  it?"  repeated  the 
other ;  ' '  the  whole  city  rings  with  it.  The 
quarrel  happened  a  fortnight  ago,  and  she  will 
not  allow  me  to  justify  myself,  but  has  sent 
back  three  letters  I  wrote  to  her,  unopened.  She 
is  a  declared  enemy  of  the  Baroness  Reizenthal, 
and  had  made  me  promise  to  drop  her  acquaint- 
ance. But,  think  how  unfortunate  I  was  ! 
When  the  Queen-mother  made  the  hunting 
party  to  Freudenwald,  she  appointed  me  cava- 


B  IRevv  gear's  JEvc  25 

lier  to  the  Baroness.  What  could  I  do?  It 
was  impossible  to  refuse.  On  the  very  birthday 
of  the  adorable  Bonau  I  was  obliged  to  set  out. 
.  .  .  She  heard  of  it.  .  .  .  She  put  no  trust  in 
my  heart !  " 

"Well,  then,  Brahmin,  take  advantage  of  the 
present  moment.  The  New  Year  makes  up  all 
quarrels.     Is  the  Countess  here  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  see  her  over  there — the  Carme- 
lite on  the  left  of  the  third  pillar  beside  the  two 
black  dominos.  She  has  laid  aside  her  mask. 
Ah,  Prince  !  your  intercession  would " 

Philip  thought :  '  *  Now  I  can  do  a  good  work  ! ' ' 
and,  as  the  punch  had  inspired  him,  he  walked 
directly  to  the  Carmelite.  The  Countess  Bonau 
looked  at  him  for  some  time  seriously,  and 
with  flushed  cheeks,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 
She  was  a  beautiful  girl ;  yet  Philip  remained 
persuaded  that  Rose  was  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful. 

"Countess,"  he  said, — and  became  embar- 
rassed when  he  met  her  clear  bright  eye  fixed 
upon  him. 

•'Prince,"  said  the  Countess,  "an  hour  ago 
you  were  somewhat  too  bold." 

"  Fair  Countess,  I  am  therefore  at  this  pres- 
ent moment  the  more  quiet." 

"So  much  the  better.  I  shall  not,  then,  be 
obliged  to  keep  out  of  your  way." 


26  £scbofeke's  Gales 

"  Fair  lady,  allow  me  to  ask  one  question. 
Have  you  put  on  a  nun's  gown  to  do  penance 
for  your  sins  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  penance  for." 

"But  you  have,  Countess! — your  cruelties — 
your  injustice  to  the  poor  Brahmin  yonder,  who 
seems  neglected  by  his  God  and  all  the  world." 

The  beautiful  Carmelite  cast  down  her  eyes, 
and  appeared  uneasy. 

"  And  do  you  know,  fair  Countess,  that  in  the 
Freudenwald  affair  the  Chamberlain  is  as  inno- 
cent as  I  am  ?  ' ' 

"As  you,  Prince?  "  said  the  Countess,  frown- 
ing— "  what  did  you  tell  me  an  hour  ago  ?  " 

"You  are  right,  dear  Countess,  I  was  too 
bold.  You  said  so  yourself.  But  now  I  declare 
to  you  the  Chamberlain  was  obliged  to  go  to 
Freudenwald  by  command  of  the  Oueen- 
mother — against  his  will  was  obliged  to  be 
cavalier  to  the  hated  Reizenthal " 

"  Hated — by  him  ?  " — interrupted  the  Count- 
ess with  a  bitter  and  sneering  laugh. 

"Yes — he  hates, — he  despises  the  Baroness. 
Believe  me,  he  scarcely  treated  her  with  civility, 
and  incurred  the  Royal  displeasure  by  so  doing. 
I  know  it ;  and  it  was  for  your  sake.  You  are 
the  only  person  he  loves — to  you  he  offers  his 
hand,  his  heart — and  you  ! — you  reject  him  !  " 

"  How  comes  it,  Prince,  that  you  iutercede  so 


B  1Revv  gear's  Bve  27 

warmly  for  Pilzou  ?  You  did  not  do  so  for- 
merly." 

"  That  was  because  I  did  not  know  him,  and 
still  less  the  sad  state  into  which  you  have 
thrown  him  by  your  behavior.  I  swear  to  you 
he  is  innocent — you  have  nothing  to  forgive  in 
him — he  has  much  to  forgive  in  you." 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  the  Carmelite,  "  we  are 
watched  here  ;  away  from  this."  She  replaced 
her  mask,  stood  up,  and  placing  her  arm  within 
that  of  the  supposed  Prince,  they  crossed  the 
hall  and  entered  a  side-room.  The  Countess 
uttered  many  bitter  complaints  against  the 
Chamberlain,  but  they  were  the  complaints  of 
jealous  love.  The  Countess  was  in  tears,  when 
the  tender  Brahmin  soon  after  came  timidly 
into  the  apartment.  There  was  a  deep  silence 
among  the  three.  Philip,  not  knowing  how  to 
conclude  his  intercession  better,  led  the  Brah- 
min to  the  Carmelite,  and  joined  their  hands 
together,  without  saying  a  word,  and  left  them 
to  fate.     He  himself  returned  into  the  hall. 


IV. 

HERE  he  was  hastily  addressed  by  a  Mameluke  : 
"I  'm  glad  I  have  met  you,  Domino.  Is  the 
Rose-girl  in  the  side-room?"  The  Mameluke 
rushed  into  it,  but  returned  in  a  moment  evi- 


23  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

dently  disappointed.  "  One  word  alone  with 
you,  Domino,"  lie  said,  and  led  Philip  into  a- 
window  recess  in  a  retired  part  of  the  hall. 

"What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

"  I  beseech  you,"  replied  the  Mameluke,  in  a 
subdued  yet  terrible  voice,  "  where  is  the  Rose- 
girl  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  Rose-girl  to  me  ?  " 

"  But  to  me  she  is  every  thing  !  "  answered  the 
Mameluke,  whose  suppressed  voice  and  agitated 
demeanor  showed  that  a  fearful  struggle  was 
going  on  within.  "To  me  she  is  everything. 
She  is  my  wife.  You  make  me  wretched, 
Prince  !  I  conjure  you  drive  me  not  to  mad- 
ness.    Think  of  my  wife  no  more  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  Philip,  drily ; 
"  what  have  1  to  do  with  your  wife  ? " 

"O  Prince,  Prince!"  exclaimed  the  Mame- 
luke, "I  have  made  a  resolve  which  I  shall 
execute  if  it  cost  me  my  life.  Do  not  seek  to 
deceive  me  a  moment  longer.  I  have  discovered 
every  thing.  Here  !  look  at  this  !  't  is  a  note 
my  false  wife  slipt  into  your  hand,  and  which 
you  dropt  in  the  crowd,  without  having  read." 

Philip  took  the  note.  'T  was  written  in  pen- 
cil, and  in  a  fine  delicate  hand  :  "  Change  your 
mask.  Everybody  knows  you.  My  husband 
watches  you.  He  does  not  know  me.  If  you 
obey  me  I  will  reward  you." 


B  1Rew  gear's  TBvc  29 

"  Hem  !  "  muttered  Philip.  "Asl  live,  this 
was  not  written  to  me.  I  don't  trouble  my 
head  about  your  wife." 

"Death  and  fury,  Prince!  do  not  drive  me 
mad  !  Do  you  know  who  it  is  that  speaks  to 
you  ?  I  am  the  Marshal  Blankenswerd.  Your 
advances  to  my  wife  are  not  unknown  to  me, 
ever  since  the  last  rout  at  the  palace." 

"My  Lord  Marshal,"  answered  Philip,  "ex- 
cuse me  for  saying  that  jealousy  has  blinded 
you.  If  you  knew  me  well,  you  would  not  think 
of  accusing  me  of  such  folly.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  I  will  never  trouble  your  wife." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Prince  ?  " 

"Entirely." 

"  Give  me  a  proof  of  this  ?  " 

"Whatever  you  require." 

"  I  know  you  have  hindered  her  until  now 
from  going  with  me  to  visit  her  relations  in 
Poland.    Will  you  persuade  her  to  do  so  now  ? " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  if  you  desire  it." 

"Yes,  yes!  and  your  Royal  Highness  will 
prevent  inconceivable  and  unavoidable  misery." 

The  Mameluke  continued  for  some  time, 
sometimes  begging  and  praying,  and  sometimes 
threatening  so  furiously,  that  Philip  feared  he 
might  make  a  scene  before  the  whole  assembly 
that  would  not  have  suited  him  precisely.  He 
therefore    quitted    him    as    soon    as    possible. 


36  Zschokke's  Gates 

vScarcely  had  he  lost  himself  in  the  crowd,  when 
a  female,  closely  wrapped  in  deep  mourning, 
tapped  him  familiarly  on  the  arm,  and  w'his- 
pered : 

"  Butterfly,  whither  away?  Have  you  no  pity 
for  the  disconsolate  Widow?  " 

Philip  answered  very  politely:  "Beautiful 
widows  find  no  lack  of  comforters.  May  I  ven- 
ture to  include  myself  amongst  them  ?  " 

"  Why  are  you  so  disobedient?  and  why  have 
you  not  changed  your  mask  ?  "  said  the  Widow, 
while  she  led  him  aside  that  they  might  speak 
more  freely.  "  Do  you  really  fancy,  Prince,  that 
every  one  here  does  not  know  who  you  are  ?" 

"They  are  very  much  mistaken  in  me,  I 
assure  you,"  replied  Philip. 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  the  widow,  "they 
know  you  very  well,  and  if  you  do  not  imme- 
diately change  your  apparel,  I  shall  not  speak 
to  you  again  the  whole  evening.  I  have  no 
desire  to  give  my  husband  an  opportunity  of 
making  a  scene." 

By  this  Philip  discovered  whom  he  was  talk- 
ing with.  "  You  were  the  beautiful  Rose-girl ; 
are  your  roses  withered  so  soon  ?  " 

"What  is  there  that  does  not  wither?  not 
the  constancy  of  man  ?  I  saw  you  when  you 
slipped  off  with  the  Carmelite.  Acknowledge 
your  inconstancy — you  can  deny  it  no  longer." 


B  IRew  gear's  JBvc  31 

"  Hem,"— answered  Philip,  dryly,  "accuse 
me  if  you  will,  I  can  return  the  accusation." 

"  How, — pretty  butterfly  ?  " 

"  Why,  for  instance,  there  is  not  a  more  con- 
stant man  alive  than  the  Marshal." 

"There  is  not  indeed  ! — and  I  am  wrong,  very 
wrong  to  have  listened  to  you  so  long.  I  re- 
proached myself  enough,  but  he  has  unfortu- 
nately discovered  our  flirtation." 

"Since  the  last  rout  at  Court,  fair  Widow  " — 

"  Were  you  so  unguarded  and  particular — 
pretty  butterfly  !  " 

"  Let  us  repair  the  mischief.  Let  us  part.  I 
honor  the  Marshal,  and,  for  my  part,  do  not  like 
to  give  him  pain." 

The  Widow  looked  at  him  for  some  time  in 
speechless  amazement. 

"If  you  have  indeed  any  regard  for  me," 
continued  Philip,  "you  will  go  with  the  Mar- 
shal to  Poland,  to  visit  your  relations.  'T  is 
better  that  we  should  not  meet  so  often.  A 
beautiful  woman  is  beautiful — but  a  pure  and 
virtuous  woman  is  more  beautiful  still." 

"  Prince  !  "  cried  the  astonished  Widow,  "are 
you  really  in  earnest  ?  Have  you  ever  loved 
me,  or  have  you  all  along  deceived  ?  " 

"Look  you,"  answered  Philip,  "I  am  a 
tempter  of  a  peculiar  kind.  I  search  constantly 
among  women  to  find  truth  and  virtue,  and  'tis 


32  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

but  seldom  that  I  encounter  them.  Only  the 
true  and  virtuous  can  keep  me  constant — there- 
fore I  am  true  to  none  ;  but  no  ! — I  will  not  lie 
— there  is  one  that  keeps  me  in  her  chains — I 
am  sorry,  fair  Widow,  that  that  one — is  not 
you  !  " 

"You  are  in  a  strange  mood  to-night,  Prince," 
answered  the  Widow,  and  the  trembling  of  her 
voice  and  heaving  of  her  bosom  showed  the 
working  of  her  mind. 

"  No,"  answered  Philip,  "  I  am  in  as  rational 
a  mood  to-night  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life.  I 
wish  only  to  repair  an  injury  ;  I  have  promised 
to  your  husband  to  do  so." 

"How!"  exclaimed  the  Widow,  in  a  voice 
of  terror,  "  jrou  have  discovered  all  to  the  Mar- 
shal ?  " 

"Not  every  thing,"  answered  Philip,  "only 
what  I  knew." 

The  widow  wrung  her  hands  in  the  extremity 
of  agitation,  and  at  last  said,  "Where  is  my 
husband  ?  " 

Philip  pointed  to  the  Mameluke,  who  at  this 
moment  approached  them  with  slow  steps. 

"Prince,"  said  the  Widow,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
expressible rage, — "Prince,  you  may  be  for- 
given this,  but  not  from  me  !  I  never  dreamt 
that  the  heart  of  man  could  be  so  deceitful, — 
but  you  are  unworthy  of  a  thought.     You  are  an 


%  1Fiew  gear's  j£x>e  33 

impostor  !  My  husband  in  the  dress  of  a  bar- 
barian is  a  prince  ;  you  in  the  dress  of  a  prince 
are  a  barbarian.  In  this  world  you  see  me  no 
more  !  " 

With  these  words  she  turned  proudly  away 
from  him,  and  going  up  to  the  Mameluke,  they 
left  the  hall  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation. 
Philip  laughed  quietly,  and  said  to  himself  : 
"My  substitute,  the  watchman,  must  look  to 
it,  for  I  do  not  play  my  part  badly  ;  I  only 
hope  when  he  returns  he  will  proceed  as  I  have 
begun." 

He  went  up  to  the  dancers,  and  was  delighted 
to  see  the  beautiful  Carmelite  standing  up  in  a 
set  with  the  overjoyed  Brahmin.  No  sooner 
did  the  latter  perceive  him,  than  he  kissed  his 
hand  to  him,  and  in  dumb  show  gave  him  to 
understand  in  what  a  blessed  state  he  was. 
Philip  thought  :  " 'T  is  a  pity  I  am  not  to  be 
prince  all  my  lifetime.  The  people  would  be 
satisfied  then  :  to  be  a  prince  is  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  He  can  do  more  with  a 
single  word  than  a  lawyer  with  a  four- 
hours'  speech.  Yes !  if  I  were  a  prince,  my 
beautiful  Rose  would  be — lost  to  me  forever. 
No  !  I  would  not  be  a  prince."  He  now  looked 
at  the  clock,  and  saw  't  was  half-past  eleven. 
The  Mameluke  hurried  up  to  him  and  gave  him 
a  paper.     "Prince,"  he   exclaimed,   "I   could 


34  ^scbofcfce's  Sales 

fall  at  your  feet  and  thank  you  in  the  very  dust. 
I  am  reconciled  to  my  wife.  You  have  broken 
her  heart ;  but  it  is  better  that  it  should  be  so. 
We  leave  for  Poland  this  very  night,  and  there 
we  shall  fix  our  home.  Farewell !  I  shall  be 
ready  whenever  your  Royal  Highness  requires 
me,  to  pour  out  my  last  drop  of  blood  in  your 
service.     My  gratitude  is  eternal.     Farewell  !" 

"Stay!"  said  Philip  to  the  Marshal,  who 
was  hurrying  away,  "  what  am  I  to  do  with  this 
paper?" 

"Oh,  that, — 't  is  the  amount  of  my  loss  to 
your  Highness  last  week  at  hazard.  I  had 
nearly  forgotten  it  ;  but  before  my  departure,  I 
must  clear  my  debts.  I  have  endorsed  it  on 
the  back."  With  these  words  the  Marshal  dis- 
appeared. 


V. 


Philip  opened  the  paper,  and  read  in  it  an 
order  for  five  thousand  dollars.  He  put  it  in 
his  pocket,  and  thought:  "Well,  it  's  a  pity 
that  I  'm  not  a  prince."  Some  one  whispered 
in  his  ear  : 

"  Your  Royal  Highness,  we  are  both  discov- 
ered ;  I  shall  blow  my  brains  out." 

Philip  turned  round  in  amazement,  and  saw  a 
negro  at  his  side. 


B  IRevv  gear's  JBvc  35 

"What  do  you  want,  mask?"  he  asked,  in 
an  unconcerned  tone. 

"lam  Colonel  Kalt,"  whispered  the  negro. 
"The  Marshal's  wife  has  been  chattering  to 
Duke  Herman,  and  he  has  been  breathing  fire 
and  fury  against  us  both." 

"  He  is  quite  welcome,"  answered  Philip. 

"But  the  King  will  hear  it  all,"  sighed  the 
negro.  "  This  very  night  I  may  be  arrested 
and  carried  to  a  dungeon  ;  I  '11  sooner  hang 
myself. ' ' 

"  No  need  of  that,"  said  Philip. 

"What!  am  I  to  be  made  infamous  for  my 
whole  life  ?  I  am  lost,  I  tell  you.  The  Duke 
will  demand  entire  satisfaction.  His  back  is 
black  and  blue  yet  with  the  marks  of  the 
cudgelling  I  gave  him.  I  am  lost,  and  the 
baker's  daughter  too !  I  '11  jump  from  the 
bridge  and  drown  myself  at  once  !  " 

"God  forbid!"  answered  Philip;  "what 
have  you  and  the  baker's  daughter  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  Your  Royal  Highness  banters  me,  and  I  am 
in  despair  ! — I  humbly  beseech  you  to  give  me 
two  minutes'  private  conversation." 

Philip  followed  the  negro  into  a  small  bou- 
doir dimly  lighted  up  with  a  few  candles.  The 
negro  threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  quite  overcome, 
and  groaned  aloud.     Philip  found  some  sand- 


36  ^gcbofcfce'6  Gales 

wiches  and  wine  on  the  table,  and  helped  him- 
self with  great  relish. 

"I  wonder  your  Royal  Highness  can  be  so 
cool  on  hearing  this  cursed  story.  If  that  ras- 
cally Salmoni  was  here  who  acted  the  conjurer, 
he  might  save  us  by  some  contrivance,  for  the 
fellow  was  a  bunch  of  tricks.  As  it  is,  he  has 
slipped  out  of  the  scrape." 

"So  much  the  better,"  interrupted  Philip, 
replenishing  his  glass  ;  "  since  he  has  got  out 
of  the  way,  we  can  throw  all  the  blame  on  his 
shoulders." 

"How  can  we  do  that?  The  Duke,  I  tell 
you,  knows  that  you,  and  I,  and  the  Marshal's 
wife,  and  the  baker's  daughter,  were  all  in  the 
plot  together,  to  take  advantage  of  his  supersti- 
tion. He  knows  that  it  wras  you  that  engaged 
vSalmoni  to  play  the  conjurer  ;  that  it  was  I  that 
instructed  the  baker's  daughter  (with  whom  he 
is  in  love)  how  to  inveigle  him  into  the  snare  ; 
that  it  was  I  that  enacted  the  ghost,  that 
knocked  him  down,  and  cudgelled  him  till  he 
roared  again.  If  I  had  only  not  carried  the 
joke  too  far,  but  I  wished  to  cool  his  love  a  lit- 
tle for  my  sweetheart.  'T  was  a  devilish  busi- 
ness.    I  '11  take  poison." 

"  Rather  swallow  a  glass  of  wine — 't  is  deli- 
cious," said  Philip,  taking  another  tart  at  the 
same  time.     "For  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my 


B  "Hew  gear's  Eve  37 

friend,  I  think  you  are  rather  a  white-livered 
sort  of  rogue  for  a  colonel,  to  think  of  hanging, 
drowning,  shooting,  and  poisoning  yourself 
about  such  a  ridiculous  story  as  that.  One  of 
these  modes  would  be  too  much,  but  as  to  all  the 
four — nonsense.  I  tell  you  that  at  this  moment 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  out  of  your  tale." 

"  Your  Royal  Highness  have  pity  on  me,  my 
brain  is  turned.  The  Duke's  page,  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  has  told  me  this  very  moment, 
that  the  Marshal's  wife,  inspired  by  the  devil, 
went  up  to  the  Duke,  and  told  him  that  the 
trick  played  on  him  at  the  baker's  house,  was 
planned  by  Prince  Julian,  who  opposed  his 
marriage  with  his  sister  ;  that  the  spirit  he 
saw  was  myself,  sent  by  the  Princess  to  be 
a  witness  of  his  superstition  ;  that  your  High- 
ness was  a  witness  of  his  descent  into  the 
pit  after  hidden  gold,  and  of  his  promise  to 
make  the  baker's  daughter  his  mistress,  and 
also  to  make  her  one  of  the  nobility  immedi- 
ately after  his  marriage  with  the  Princess.  '  Do 
not  hope  to  gain  the  Princess.  It  is  useless  for 
you  to  try,'  were  the  last  words  of  the  Marshal's 
wife  to  the  Duke." 

"And  a  pretty  story  it  is,"  muttered  Philip  ; 
"  why,  behavior  like  that  would  be  a  disgrace 
to  the  meanest  of  the  people.  I  declare  there 
is  no  end  to  these  deviltries." 


38  £scbofcke's  Gales 

1 '  Yes,  indeed.  'T  is  impossible  to  behave  more 
meanly  than  the  Marshal's  lady.  The  woman 
must  be  a  fury.  My  gracious  Lord,  save  me 
from  destruction." 

"  Where  is  the  Duke  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

"The  page  told  me  he  started  up  on  hearing 
the  story,  and  said,  'I  will  go  to  the  King.' 
And  if  he  tells  the  story  to  the  King  in  his  own 
way " 

"  Is  the  King  here,  then  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  at  play  in  the  next  room, 
with  the  Archbishop  and  the  Minister  of 
Police." 

Philip  walked  with  long  steps  through  the 
boudoir.     The  case  required  consideration. 

"Your  Royal  Highness,"  said  the  negro, 
"protect  me.  Your  own  honor  is  at  stake. 
You  can  easily  make  all  straight  ;  otherwise,  I 
am  ready  at  the  first  intimation  of  danger,  to 
fly  across  the  border.  I  will  pack  up,  and  to- 
morrow I  shall  expect  your  last  commands  as 
to  my  future  behavior." 

With  these  words  the  negro  took  his  leave. 


VI. 

"IT  is  high  time  I  were  a  watchman  again," 
thought  Philip.  "I  am  getting  both  myself 
and  my  substitute  into  scrapes  he  will  find  it 


B  1Revv  gear's  JEve  39 

hard  to  get  out  of — and  this  makes  the  differ- 
ence between  a  peasant  and  a  prince.  One  is 
no  better  off  than  the  other.  Good  heavens  ! 
what  stupid  things  these  court  lords  are  doing 
which  we  do  not  dream  of  with  our  lanthorns 
and  staff  in  hand,  or  when  at  the  spade.  We 
think  they  lead  the  lives  of  angels,  without  sin 
or  care.  Pretty  piece  of  business  !  Within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  have  heard  of  more  rascally 
tricks   than  I    ever  played   in    my  whole  life. 

And "  but  his  revery  was  interrupted  by  a 

whisper. 

"  So  lonely,  Prince  !  I  consider  myself  happy 
in  having  a  minute's  conversation  with  your 
Royal  Highness." 

Philip  looked  at  the  speaker  ;  and  he  was  a 
miner,  covered  over  with  gold  and  jewels. 

"But  one  instant,"  said  the  mask.  "The 
business  is  pressing,  and  deeply  concerns  you." 

' '  Who  are  you  ? ' '  inquired  Philip. 

"Count  Bodenlos,  the  Minister  of  Finance, 
at  your  Highness'  service,"  answered  the  miner, 
and  showed  his  face,  which  looked  as  if  it  were 
a  second  mask,  with  its  little  eyes  and  copper- 
colored  nose. 

"Well,  then,  my  lord,  what  are  your  com- 
mands?" 

"May  I  speak  openly?  I  waited  on  your 
Royal  Highness  thrice,  and  was  never  admitted 


4o  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

to  the  honor  of  an  audience  ;  and  yet — Heaven 
is  my  witness — no  man  in  all  this  court  has  a 
deeper  interest  in  your  Royal  Highness  than  I 
have." 

"I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  replied 
Philip  ;  "what  is  your  business  just  now  ?  But 
be  quick." 

"May  I  venture  to  speak  of  the  house  of 
Abraham  Levi?" 

' '  As  much  as  you  like. ' ' 

"They  have  applied  to  me  about  the  fifty 
thousand  dollars  which  you  owe  them,  and 
threaten  to  apply  to  the  King.  And  you  re- 
member your  promise  to  his  Majesty,  when  last 
he  paid  your  debts." 

"Can't  the  people  wait?"  asked  Philip. 

"No  more  than  the  Brothers,  goldsmiths, 
who  demand  their  seventy-five  thousand  dol~ 
lars." 

"It  is  all  one  to  me.  If  the  people  won't  wait 
for  their  money,  I  must " 

"No  hasty  resolution,  my  gracious  Lord!  I 
have  it  in  my  power  to  make  every  thing  com- 
fortable, if " 

"Well,  if  what?" 

"If  you  will  honor  me  by  listening  to  me  one 
moment.  I  hope  to  have  no  difficulty  in  re- 
deeming all  your  debts.  The  house  of  Abraham 
Levi    has    bought   up    immense  quantities   of 


21  IRew  fear's  JSve  41 

corn,  so  that  the  price  is  very  much  raised.  A 
decree  against  importation  will  raise  it  three 
or  four  per  cent,  higher.  By  giving  Abraham 
Levi  the  monopoly,  the  business  will  be  ar- 
ranged. The  house  erases  your  debt,  and  pays 
off  your  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  to  the 
goldsmiths,  and  I  give  you  over  the  receipts. 
But  every  thing  depends  on  my  continuing  for 
another  year  at  the  head  of  the  Finance.  If 
Baron  Griefensack  succeeds  in  ejecting  me  from 
the  Ministry,  I  shall  be  unable  to  serve  your 
Royal  Highness  as  I  could  wish.  If  your  High- 
ness will  leave  the  party  of  Griefensack,  our 
point  is  gained.  For  me,  it  is  a  matter  of  per- 
fect indifference  whether  I  remain  in  office  or 
not.  I  sigh  for  repose.  But  for  your  Royal 
Highness,  it  is  a  matter  of  great  moment.  If  I 
have  not  the  mixing  of  the  pack,  I  lose  the 
game." 

Philip  for  some  time  did  not  know  what 
answer  to  make.  At  last,  while  the  Finance 
Minister,  in  expectation  of  his  reply,  took  a 
pinch  out  of  his  snuff-box  set  with  jewels,  Philip 
said  : 

"If  I  rightly  understand  you,  Sir  Count,  you 
would  starve  the  country  a  little  in  order  to 
pay  my  debts.  Consider,  sir,  what  misery 
you  will  cause.  And  will  the  King  consent  to 
it?" 


42  £scbofcfce'5  Galea 

' '  If  I  remain  in  office,  I  will  answer  for  that, 
my  gracious  Lord!  When  the  price  of  corn 
rises,  the  King  will,  of  course,  think  of  permit- 
ting importation,  and  prevent  exportation  by 
levying  heavy  imposts.  The  permission  to  do 
so  is  given  to  the  house  of  Abraham  Levi,  and 
they  export  as  much  as  they  choose.  But,  as  I 
said  before,  if  Griefensack  gets  the  helm,  noth- 
ing can  be  done.  For  the  first  year  he  would 
be  obliged  to  attend  strictly  to  his  duty,  in  or- 
der to  be  able  afterwards  to  feather  his  nest  at 
the  expense  of  the  country.  He  must  first  make 
sure  of  his  ground.    He  is  dreadfully  grasping  !  " 

"A  pretty  project,"  answered  Philip  ;  "and 
how  long  do  you  think  a  finance  minister  must 
be  in  office  before  he  can  lay  his  shears  on  the 
flock  to  get  wool  enough  for  himself  and  me?'' 

"Oh,  if  he  has  his  wits  about  him,  he  may 
manage  it  in  a  year." 

"Then  the  King  ought  to  be  counselled  to 
change  his  finance  minister  every  twelve 
months,  if  he  wishes  to  be  faithfully  and  hon- 
orably served." 

"I  hope,  your  Royal  Highness,  that  since  I 
have  had  the  Exchequer,  the  King  and  Court 
have  been  faithfully  served?  " 

"I  believe  you,  Count,  and  the  poor  people 
believe  you  still  more.  Already  they  scarcely 
know  how  to  pay  their  rates  and  taxes.     You 


B  1Re\v  gear's  36v>e  43 

should  treat  us  with  a  little  more  consideration, 
Count." 

"Us! — don't  I  do  everything  for  the  Court?" 

"No!  I  mean  the  people.  You  should  have 
a  little  more  consideration  for  them." 

"I  appreciate  what  your  Royal  Highness 
says ;  but  I  serve  the  King  and  the  Court,  and 
the  people  are  not  to  be  considered.  The  coun- 
try is  his  private  property,  and  the  people  are 
only  useful  to  him  as  increasing  the  value  of 
the  land.  But  this  is  no  time  to  discuss  the  old 
story  about  the  interests  of  the  people.  I  beg 
your  Royal  Highness'  answer  to  my  proposi- 
tions. Shall  I  have  the  honor  to  discharge  your 
debts  on  the  above  specified  conditions  ?  " 

"Answer, — no — never,  never!  at  the  expense 
of  hundreds  and  thousands  of  starving  families. ' ' 

"But,  your  Royal  Highness,  if  in  addition  to 
the  clearance  of  your  debts,  I  make  the  house 
of  Abraham  Levi  present  you  with  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  in  hard  cash  ?  I  think  it  may  afford 
you  that  sum.  The  house  will  gain  so  much  by 
the  operation,  that " 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  able  to  give  you  also  a 
mark  of  its  regard." 

"  Your  Highness  is  pleased  to  jest  with  me. 
I  gain  nothing  by  the  affair.  My  whole  object 
is  to  obtain  the  protection  of  your  Royal  High- 
ness." 


44  Escbokke'e  Gales 

"You  are  very  polite  !  " 

"I  may  hope,  then,  Prince?" 

"  My  duty  is  to  be  of  service  to  you.  To- 
morrow I  shall  send  for  Abraham,  and  con- 
clude the  arrangement  with  him.  I  shall  have 
the  honor  to  present  your  Royal  Highness  with 
the  receipt  for  all  your  debts,  besides  the  gift 
of  fifty  thousand  dollars." 

"  Go,  I  want  to  hear  no  more  of  it." 

"And  your  Royal  Highness  will  honor  me 
with  your  favor  ?  For  unless  I  am  in  the  Min- 
istry, it  is  impossible  for  me  to  deal  with  Abra- 
ham Levi  so  as " 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  and  your  ministry  and 
Abraham  Levi  were  all  three  on  the  Blocksberg  ! 
I  tell  you  what,  unless  you  lower  the  price  of 
corn,  and  take  away  the  monopoly  from  that 
infernal  Jew,  I  '11  go  this  moment  and  reveal 
your  villainy  to  the  King,  and  get  you  and  Abra- 
ham Levi  banished  from  the  country.  See  to 
it — I  '11  keep  my  word."  Philip  turned  away 
in  a  rage,  and  proceeded  into  the  dancing- 
room,  leaving  the  Minister  of  Finance  petrified 
with  amazement. 

VII. 

"When  does  your  Royal  Highness  require 
the  carriage,"  whispered  a  stout  little  Dutch 
merchant  in  a  bobbed  wig. 


B  IRevv  gear's  Bve  45 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Philip. 

"  'T  is  after  half-past  eleven,  and  the  beauti- 
ful singer  expects  you.  She  will  tire  of  wait- 
ing." 

"  I^et  her  sing  something  to  cheer  her." 

"How,  Prince?  Have  you  changed  your 
mind  ?  Would  you  leave  the  captivating  Rol- 
lina  in  the  lurch,  and  throw  away  the  golden 
opportunity  you  have  been  sighing  for  for  two 
months  ?  The  letter  you  sent  to-day,  inclosing 
the  diamond  watch,  did  wonders.  The  proud 
but  fragile  beauty  surrenders.  This  morning 
you  were  in  raptures,  and  now  you  are  as  cold 
as  ice  !     What  is  the  cause  of  the  change  ?  " 

"That  is  my  business,  not  yours,"  said 
Philip. 

"I  had  your  orders  to  join  you  at  half-past 
eleven.  Perhaps  you  have  other  engage- 
ments ?  " 

"Perhaps." 

"  A  petit  souper  with  the  Countess  Born  ? 
She  is  not  present  here  ;  at  least  among  all  the 
masks  I  can't  trace  her  out.  I  should  know 
her  among  a  thousand  by  that  graceful  walk 
and  her  peculiar  way  of  carrying  her  little  head 
— eh,  Prince  ? ' ' 

' '  Well,  but  if  it  were  so,  there  would  be  no 
necessity  for  making  you  my  confidant,  would 
there?" 


46  Zecbckke'B  Gales 

"I  will  take  the  hint,  and  be  silent.  But 
won't  you  at  any  rate  send  to  the  Signora  Rol- 
lina  to  let  her  know  you  are  not  coming?  " 

"  If  I  have  sighed  for  her  for  two  months,  she 
had  better  sigh  a  month  or  two  for  me.  I 
sha'n't  go  near  her." 

"  So  that  beautiful  necklace  which  you  sent 
her  for  a  New  Year's  present  was  all  for  noth- 
ing ?  " 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

' '  Will  you  break  with  her  entirely  ?  ' ' 

"  There  is  nothing  between  us  to  break,  that 
I  know  of." 

"Well,  then,  since  you  speak  so  plainly,  I 
may  tell  you  something  which  you  perhaps 
know  already.  Your  love  for  the  Signora  has 
hitherto  kept  me  silent ;  but  now  that  you 
have  altered  your  mind  about  her,  I  can  no 
longer  keep  the  secret  from  you.  You  are  de- 
ceived." 

"  By  whom?  " 

"  By  the  artful  singer.  She  would  divide 
her  favors  between  your  Royal  Highness  and  a 
Jew." 

"AJew?" 

"Yes  !  with  the  son  of  Abraham  L,evi." 

"  Is  that  rascal  everywhere  ?  " 

"So  your  Highness  did  not  know  it?  but  I 
am  telling  you  the  exact  truth  ;  if  it  were  not 


B  1Rew  lear's  Bve  47 

for  your  Royal  Highness,  she  would  be  his  mis- 
tress. I  am  only  sorry  you  gave  her  that 
watch." 

"  I  don't  regret  it  at  all." 
"  The  jade  deserves  to  be  whipped." 
"Few  people  meet  their  deserts,"  answered 
Philip. 

"Too  true,  too  true,  your  Royal  Highness. 
For  instance,  I  have  discovered  a  girl — O 
Prince,  there  is  not  such  another  in  this  city  or 
in  the  whole  world  !  Few  have  seen  this  angel. 
— Pooh  !  Rollina  is  nothing  to  her.  Listen — 
a  girl  tall  and  slender  as  a  palm-tree — with  a 
complexion  like  the  red  glow  of  evening  upon 
snow — eyes  like  sunbeams — rich  golden  tresses, 
— in  short,  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  ever 
beheld — a  Venus — a  goddess  in  rustic  attire. 
Your  Highness,  we  must  give  her  chase. ' ' 
"  A  peasant  girl  ?  " 

"  A  mere  rustic  ;  but  then  you  must  see  her 
yourself,  and  you  will  love  her.  But  my  de- 
scriptions are  nothing.  Imagine  the  embodi- 
ment of  all  that  you  can  conceive  most  charm- 
ing— add  to  that,  artlessness,  grace,  and  inno- 
cence. But  the  difficulty  is  to  catch  sight  of 
her.  She  seldom  leaves  her  mother.  I  know 
her  seat  in  church,  and  have  watched  her  for 
many  Sundays  past,  as  she  walked  with  her 
mother  to  the  Elm-Gate.     I  have  ascertained 


43  ^scbofcfee's  Galee 

that  a  handsome  young  fellow,  a  gardener,  is 
making  court  to  her.  He  can't  marry  her,  for 
he  is  a  poor  devil,  and  she  has  nothing.  The 
mother  is  the  widow  of  a  poor  weaver." 

"  And  the  mother's  name  is  ?  " 

"  Widow  Bittner,  in  Milk  Street ;  and  the 
daughter,  fairest  of  flowers,  is  in  fact  called 
Rose." 

Philip's  blood  boiled  at  the  sound  of  the  be- 
loved name.  His  first  inclination  was  to  knock 
the  communicative  Dutchman  down.  He  re- 
strained himself,  however,  and  only  asked, 

"  Are  you  the  devil  himself  ?  " 

"  'T  is  good  news,  is  it  not?  I  have  taken 
some  steps  in  the  matter  already,  but  you  must 
see  her  first.  But  perhaps  such  a  pearl  has  not 
altogether  escaped  your  keen  observation  ?  Do 
you  know  her?  " 

"  Intimately." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Have  I  been  too  lav- 
ish of  my  praises  ?  You  confess  their  truth  ?  She 
sha'n't  escape  us.  We  must  go  together  to  the 
widow  ;  you  must  play  the  philanthropist.  You 
have  heard  of  the  widow's  poverty,  and  must 
insist  on  relieving  it.  You  take  an  interest  in 
the  good  woman  ;  enter  into  her  misfortunes  ; 
leave  a  small  present  at  each  visit,  and  by  this 
means  become  acquainted  with  Rose.  The  rest 
follows,  of  course.     The  gardener  can  be  easily 


B  Ittevv  gear's  jBvc  49 

got  out  of  the  way,  or  perhaps  a  dozen  or  two 
dollars  slipped  quietly  into  his  hand  may " 

Philip's  rage  broke  forth. 

"  I  '11  throttle  you " 

"  If  the  gardener  makes  a  fuss  ?  "  interposed 
the  Dutchman.  "  Leave  me  to  settle  this  mat- 
ter. I  '11  get  him  kidnapped,  and  sent  to  the 
army  to  fight  for  his  country.  In  the  mean- 
time you  get  possession  of  the  field  ;  for  the 
girl  has  a  peasant's  attachment  for  the  fellow, 
and  it  will  not  be  easy  to  get  the  nonsense  out 
of  her  head,  which  she  has  been  taught  by  the 
canaille.  But  I  will  give  her  some  lessons,  and 
then " 

"I  '11  break  your  neck." 

"Your  Highness  is  too  good.  But  if  your 
Highness  would  use  your  influence  with  the 
King  to  procure  me  the  Chamberlain's  key " 

"  I  wish  I  could  procure  you " 

"  Oh,  don't  flatter  me,  your  Highness.  Had 
I  only  known  you  thought  so  much  of  her 
beauty,  she  would  have  been  yours  long  ago." 

"Not  a  word  more,"  cried  the  enraged  Philip, 
in  a  smothered  voice  ;  for  he  dared  not  speak 
aloud,  he  was  so  surrounded  by  maskers,  who 
were  listening,  dancing,  talking,  as  they  passed 
him,  and  he  might  have  betrayed  himself: 
"  not  a  word  more  !  " 

"  No,  there  will  be  more  than  words.     Deeds 


so  Zscbohfce'6  Gales 

shall  show  my  sincerity.  You  may  advance. 
You  are  wont  to  conquer.  The  outposts  will  be 
easily  taken.  The  gardener  I  will  manage,  and 
the  mother  will  range  herself  under  your  gilded 
banners.     Then  the  fortress  will  be  won  !  " 

"  Sir,  if  you  venture,"  said  Philip,  who  now 
could  hardly  contain  himself.  It  was  with 
great  difficulty  he  refrained  from  open  violence, 
and  he  clutched  the  arm  of  the  Dutchman  with 
the  force  of  a  vice. 

"Your  Highness,  for  Heaven's  sake,  moder- 
ate your  joy.  I  shall  scream — you  are  mashing 
my  arm  !  " 

"  If  you  venture  to  go  near  that  innocent  girl 
I  will  demolish  every  bone  in  your  body." 

"Good,  good,"  screamed  the  Dutchman,  in 
intense  pain  ;   "  only  let  go  my  arm." 

"If  I  find  you  anywhere  near  Milk  Street, 
I  '11  dash  your  miserable  brains  out.  So  look 
to  it." 

The  Dutchman  seemed  almost  stupefied ; 
trembling,  he  said  : 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  could  not 
imagine  you  really  loved  the  girl  as  it  seems 
you  do." 

"  I  love  her  !  I  will  own  it  before  the  whole 
world  !  " 

"  And  are  loved  in  return  ?  " 

"  That 's  none  of  your  business.     Never  men- 


B  1ftew  Liar's  JEve  51 

tion  her  name  to  me  again.  Do  not  even  think 
of  her  ;  it  would  be  a  stain  upon  her  purity. 
Now  you  know  what  I  think.     Be  off!  " 

Philip  twirled  the  unfortunate  Dutchman 
round  as  he  let  go  his  arm,  and  that  worthy 
gentleman  slunk  out  of  the  hall. 

VIII. 

In  the  meantime  Philip's  substitute  support- 
ed his  character  of  watchman  on  the  snow-cov- 
ered streets.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say 
that  this  was  none  other  than  Prince  Julian 
who  had  taken  a  notion  to  join  the  watch — his 
head  being  crazed  by  the  fire  of  the  sweet  wine. 
He  attended  to  the  directions  left  by  Philip, 
and  went  his  rounds,  and  called  the  hour  with 
great  decorum,  except  that,  instead  of  the  usual 
watchman's  verses,  he  favored  the  public  with 
rhymes  of  his  own.  He  was  cogitating  a  new 
stanza,  when  the  door  of  a  house  beside  him 
opened,  and  a  well  wrapped  up  girl  beckoned 
to  him,  and  ran  into  the  shadow  of  the  house. 

The  Prince  left  his  stanza  half  finished,  and 
followed  the  apparition.  A  soft  hand  grasped 
his  in  the  darkness,  and  a  voice  whispered  : 

"Good-evening,  dear  Philip.  Speak  low, 
that  nobody  may  hear  us.  I  have  only  got 
away  from  the  company   for  one  moment,  to 


52  ^scbofcfce's  {Tales 

speak  to  you  as  you  passed.     Are  you  happy  to 


see  me 


?  " 


"  Blest  as  a  god,  my  angel  ; — who  could  be 
otherwise  than  happy  by  thy  side  ?  " 

"  I  've  some  good  news  for  you,  Philip.  You 
must  sup  at  our  house  to-morrow  evening.  My 
mother  has  allowed  me  to  ask  you.  You  '11 
come?  " 

"  For  the  whole  evening,  and  as  many  more 
as  you  wish.  Would  we  might  be  together  till 
the  end  of  the  world  !  'T  would  be  a  life  fit  for 
gods !  " 

"Listen,  Philip;  in  half  an  hour  I  shall  be 
at  St.  Gregory's.  I  shall  expect  you  there. 
You  won't  fail  me  ?  Don't  keep  me  waiting 
long — we  shall  have  a  walk  together.  Go  now 
— we  may  be  discovered."  She  tried  to  go,  but 
Julian  held  her  back  and  threw  his  arms  round 
her. 

"What,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  coldly?"  he 
said,  and  tried  to  press  a  kiss  upon  her  lips. 

Rose  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  this  bold- 
ness, for  Philip  had  always  been  modest,  and 
never  dared  more  than  kiss  her  hand,  except 
once,  when  her  mother  had  forbidden  their 
meeting  again.  They  had  then  exchanged 
their  first  kiss  in  great  sorrow  and  in  great 
love,  but  never  since  then.  She  struggled  to 
free  herself,  but  Julian  held  her  firm,  till  at  last 


B  1Rew  H)ear'6  JBvc  53 

she  had  to  buy  her  liberty  by  submitting  to  the 
kiss,  and  begged  him  to  go.  But  Julian  seemed 
not  at  all  inclined  to  move. 

"What!  go?  I  'm  not  such  a  fool  as  that 
comes  to  !  You  think  I  love  my  horn  better 
than  you  ?     No,  indeed  !  " 

"  But  then  it  is  n't  right,  Philip." 

"Not  right  ?  why  not,  my  beauty?  there  is 
nothing  against  kissing  in  the  ten  command- 
ments." 

"  Why,  if  we  could  marry,  perhaps  you  might 
— but  you  know  very  well  we  can't  marry, 
and " 

"  Not  marry  !  why  not  ?  You  can  marry  me 
any  day  you  like." 

' '  Philip  ! — why  will  you  talk  such  folly  ? 
You  know  we  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But  /think  very  seriously  about  it — if  you 
would  consent." 

"  You  are  unkind  to  speak  thus.  Ah,  Philip, 
I  had  a  dream  last  night." 

"  A  dream — what  was  it  ?  " 

"  You  had  won  a  prize  in  the  lottery  ;  we 
were  both  so  happy  !  you  had  bought  a  beauti- 
ful garden,  handsomer  than  any  in  the  city.  It 
was  a  little  paradise  of  flowers — and  there  were 
large  beds  of  vegetables,  and  the  trees  were 
laden  with  fruit.  And  when  I  awoke,  Philip, 
I  felt  so  wretched — I  wished  I  had  not  dreamed 


54  %8cbokkefs  Sales 

such  a  happy  dream.  You  've  nothing  in  the 
lottery,  Philip,  have  you  ?  Have  you  really  won 
any  thing  ?    The  drawing  took  place  to-day." 

"  How  much  must  I  have  gained  to  win  you 
too?" 

"Ah,  Philip,  if  you  had  only  gained  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  you  might  buy  such  a  pretty  gar- 
den !  " 

"  A  thousand  dollars  !     And  what  if  it  were 


more 


?  >j 


"Ah,  Philip — what?  is  it  true?  is  it  really? 
Don't  deceive  me  !  't  will  be  worse  than  the 
dream.  You  had  a  ticket  !  and  you  've  won  ! — 
own  it  !  own  it !  " 

"  All  you  can  wish  for." 

Rose  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck  in  the 
extremity  of  her  joy,  and  kissed  him. 

"More  than  the  thousand  dollars?  and  will 
they  pay  you  the  whole  ?  ' ' 

Her  kiss  made  the  Prince  forget  to  answer. 
It  was  so  strange  to  hold  a  pretty  form  in  his 
arms,  receive  its  caresses,  and  to  know  they 
were  not  meant  for  him. 

"  Answer  me,  answer  me  !  "  cried  Rose, 
impatiently.  "  Will  they  give  you  all  that 
money  ?  " 

"  They  've  done  it  already — and  if  it  will  add 
to  your  happiness  I  will  hand  it  to  you  this 
moment." 


B  IRevv  gear's  JBvc  55 

"  What !  have  you  got  it  with  you  ?  " 

The  Prince  took  out  his  purse,  which  he  had 
filled  with  money  in  expectation  of  some  play. 

"Take  it  and  weigh  it,  my  girl,"  he  said, 
placing  it  in  her  hand  and  kissing  her  again, 
"  This  then  makes  you  mine  !  " 

"  Oh,  not  this — nor  all  the  gold  in  the  world, 
if  you  were  not  my  own  dear  Philip  !  " 

"  And  how  if  I  had  given  you  twice  as  much 
as  all  this  money,  and  yet  were  not  your  own 
dear  Philip  ?  " 

"I would  fling  the  purse  at  your  feet,  and 
make  you  a  very  polite  curtsey,"  said  Rose. 

A  door  now  opened  ;  the  light  streamed  down 
the  steps,  and  the  laughing  voices  of  girls  were 
heard.     Rose  whispered  : 

"  In  half  an  hour,  at  St.  Gregory's,"  and  ran 
up  the  steps,  leaving  the  Prince  in  the  darkness. 
Disconcerted  by  the  suddenness  of  the  parting, 
and  his  curiosity  excited  by  his  ignorance  of  the 
name  of  his  new  acquaintance,  and  not  even 
having  had  a  full  view  of  her  face,  he  consoled 
himself  with  the  rendezvous  at  St.  Gregory's 
Church  door.  This  he  resolved  to  keep,  though 
it  was  evident  that  all  the  tenderness  which 
had  been  bestowed  on  him  was  intended  for  his 
friend  the  watchman. 


56  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

IX. 

The  interview  with  Rose,  or  the  coldness  of 
the  night,  increased  the  effect  of  the  wine  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  mischievous  propensi- 
ties of  the  young  Prince  got  the  upper  hand  of 
him.  Standing  amidst  a  crowd  of  people,  in 
the  middle  of  the  street,  he  blew  so  lustily  on 
his  horn  that  the  women  screamed,  and  the 
men  gasped  with  fear.  He  called  the  hour,  and 
then  shouted,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  : 

"  The  bus'ness  of  our  lovely  state 
Is  stricken  by  the  hand  of  fate — 
Even  our  maids,  both  light  and  brown, 
Can  find  no  sale  in  all  the  town  ; 
They  deck  themselves  with  all  their  arts, 
But  no  one  buys  their  worn-out  hearts." 

"  Shame  !  shame  !  "  cried  several  female 
voices  from  the  window  at  the  end  of  this 
complimentary  effusion,  which,  however,  was 
crowned  with  a  loud  laugh  from  the  men. 
"Bravo,  watchman  !  "  cried  some  ;  "  Encore  ! 
encore!"  shouted  others.  "How  dare  you, 
fellow,  insult  ladies  in  the  open  street  ?  " 
growled  a  young  lieutenant,  who  had  a  very 
pretty  girl  on  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Lieutenant,"  answered  a  miller,  "un- 
fortunately watchmen  always  tell  the  truth,  and 
the  lady  on  your  arm  is  a  proof  of  it.     Ha ! 


a  "Hew  feat's  Bve  57 

young  jade,  do  you  know  me  ?  do  you  know 
who  I  am  ?  Is  it  right  for  a  betrothed  bride  to 
be  gadding  at  night  about  the  streets  with  other 
men  ?  To-morrow  your  mother  shall  hear  of 
this.  I  '11  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you  !  " 
The  girl  hid  her  face,  and  nudged  the  young 
officer  to  lead  her  away.  But  the  lieutenant, 
like  a  brave  soldier,  scorned  to  retreat  from  the 
miller,  and  determined  to  keep  the  field.  He 
therefore  made  use  of  a  full  round  of  oaths, 
which  were  returned  with  interest,  and  a  sabre 
was  finally  resorted  to,  with  some  flourishes  ; 
but  two  Spanish  cudgels  were  threateningly 
held  over  the  head  of  the  lieutenant  by  a  couple 
of  stout  townsmen,  while  one  of  them,  who  was 
a  broad-shouldered  beer-brewer,  cried  :  "  Don't 
make  any  more  fuss  about  the  piece  of  goods 
beside  you — she  aint  worth  it.  The  miller  's  a 
good  fellow,  and  what  he  says  is  true,  and  the 
watchman  's  right  too.  A  plain  tradesman  can 
hardly  venture  to  marry  now.  All  the  women 
wish  to  marry  above  their  station.  Instead  of 
darning  stockings,  they  read  romances  ;  instead 
of  working  in  the  kitchen,  they  run  after  come- 
dies and  concerts.  Their  houses  are  dirty,  and 
they  are  walking  out,  dressed  like  princesses  ; 
all  they  bring  a  husband  as  a  dowry  are  hand- 
some dresses,  lace  ribbons,  intrigues,  romances, 
and  idleness  !     Sir,  I  speak  from  experience  ;  I 


58  Z^cbokfce's  Gales 

should  have  married  long  since,  if  girls  were 
not  spoilt." 

The  spectators  laughed  heartily,  and  the  lieu- 
tenant slowly  put  back  his  sword,  saying  peev- 
ishly :  "It  's  a  little  too  much  to  be  obliged  to 
hear  a  sermon  from  the  canaille." 

"What!  Canaille!''''  cried  a  smith,  who 
held  the  second  cudgel.  "Do  you  call  those 
canaille  who  feed  you  noble  idlers  by  duties 
and  taxes?  Your  licentiousness  is  the  cause 
of  our  domestic  discords,  and  noble  ladies 
would  not  have  so  much  cause  to  mourn  if  you 
had  learned  both  to  pray  and  to  work." 

Several  young  officers  had  gathered  together 
already,  and  so  had  some  mechanics ;  and  the 
boys,  in  the  meantime,  threw  snowballs  among 
both  parties,  that  their  share  in  the  fun  might 
not  be  lost.  The  first  ball  hit  the  noble  lieu- 
tenant on  the  nose,  and  thinking  it  an  attack 
from  the  canaille,  he  raised  his  sabre.  The  fight 
began. 

The  Prince,  who  had  laughed  amazingly  at 
the  first  commencement  of  the  uproar,  had  be- 
taken himself  to  another  region,  and  felt  quite 
unconcerned  as  to  the  result.  In  the  course  of 
his  wanderings,  he  came  to  the  palace  of  Count 
Bodenlos,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  with  whom, 
as  Philip  had  discovered  at  the  masquerade,  the 
Prince  was  not  on  the  best  terms.     The  Count- 


a  IRew  gear's  Bve  59 

ess  had  a  large  party.  Julian  saw  the  lighted 
windows,  and  still  feeling  poetically  disposed, 
he  planted  himself  opposite  the  balcony,  and 
blew  a  peal  on  his  horn.  Several  ladies  and 
gentlemen  opened  the  shutters,  because  they 
had  nothing  better  to  do,  and  listened  to  what 
he  should  say. 

"Watchman,"  cried  one  of  them,  "sing  us  a 
New  Year's  greeting  !  " 

This  invitation  brought  a  fresh  accession  of 
the  Countess'  party  to  the  windows.  Julian 
called  the  hour  in  the  usual  manner,  and  sang, 
loud  enough  to  be  distinctly  heard  inside  : 

"  Ye  who  groan  with  heavy  debts, 
And  swift  approaching  failure  frets, 
Pray  the  I^ord  that  he  this  hour 
May  raise  you  to  some  place  of  power  ; 
And  while  the  nation  wants  and  suffers, 
Fill  your  own  from  the  people's  coffers." 

"Outrageous!"  screamed  the  lady  of  the 
Minister;  "who  is  the  insolent  wretch  that 
dares  such  an  insult?" 

"Pleashe  your  exshellenshy,"  answered  Ju- 
lian, imitating  the  Jewish  dialect  in  voice  and 
manner,  "I  vash  only  intendsh  to  shing  you  a 
pretty  shong.  I  am  de  Shew  Abraham  Levi, 
veil  known  at  dish  court.  Your  ladyship 
knowsh  me  ver'  well." 

"  How  dare  you  tell  such  a  lie,  you  villain  ?  " 


60  %scbokke'&  Gales 

exclaimed  a  voice,  trembling  with  rage,  at  one 
of  the  windows;  "how  dare  you  say  you  are 
Abraham  Levi  ?  I  am  Abraham  Levi !  You  are 
a  cheat !  " 

' '  Call  the  police ! ' '  cried  the  Countess.  ' '  Have 
that  man  arrested  !  " 

At  these  words  the  party  confusedly  withdrew 
from  the  windows.  Nor  did  the  Prince  remain 
where  he  was,  but  quickly  effected  his  escape 
through  a  cross-street.  A  crowd  of  servants 
rushed  out  of  the  palace,  led  b)'  the  secretaries 
of  the  Finance  Minister,  and  commenced  a 
search  for  the  offender.  "  We  have  him  !  "  cried 
some,  as  the  rest  eagerly  approached.  It  was  in 
fact  the  real  guardian  of  the  night,  who  was 
carefully  perambulating  his  beat,  in  innocent 
unconsciousness  of  any  offence.  In  spite  of  all 
he  could  say,  he  was  disarmed  and  carried  off  to 
the  watch-house,  and  charged  with  causing  a  dis- 
turbance by  singing  libellous  songs.  The  officer 
of  the  police  shook  his  head  at  the  unaccounta- 
ble event,  and  said:  "We  have  already  one 
watchman  in  custody,  whose  verses  about  some 
girl  caused  a  very  serious  affray  between  the 
town's-people  and  the  garrison." 

The  prisoner  would  confess  to  nothing,  but 
swore  prodigiously  at  the  tipsy  young  people 
who  had  disturbed  him  in  the  fulfilment  of  his 
duty.     One  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Finance 


B  1Rew  lear'6  Bve  61 

Minister  repeated  the  whole  verse  to  him.  The 
soldiers  standing  about  laughed  aloud,  but  the 
ancient  watchman  swore  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
that  he  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
While  the  examination  was  going  on,  and  one 
of  the  secretaries  of  the  Finance  Minister  be- 
gan to  be  doubtful  whether  the  poor  watchman 
was  really  in  fault  or  not,  an  uproar  was  heard 
outside,  and  loud  cries  of,  "  Watch,  watch  !  " 

The  guard  rushed  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  Field-Marshal  entered  the  office,  accom- 
panied by  the  captain  of  the  guards  on  duty. 
"Have  that  scoundrel  locked  up  tight,"  said 
the  Marshal,  pointing  behind  him — and  two 
soldiers  brought  in  a  watchman,  whom  they 
held  close  prisoner,  and  whom  they  had  dis- 
armed of  his  staff  and  horn. 

"  Are  the  watchmen  gone  all  mad  to-night  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  chief  of  police. 

"I  '11  have  the  rascal  punished  for  his  in- 
famous verses,"  said  the  Field-Marshal  an- 
grily. 

"Your  excellency,"  exclaimed  the  trembling 
watchman,  "  as  true  as  I  live,  I  never  made  a 
verse  in  my  born  days." 

"  Silence,  knave ! "  roared  the  Marshal.  "I  '11 
have  you  hanged  for  them !  And  if  you  con- 
tradict me  again,  I  '11  cut  you  in  two  on  the 
6pot." 


62  ^scbofcfce's  {Tales 

The  police  officer  respectfully  observed  to  the 
Field-Marshal  that  there  must  be  some  poetical 
epidemic  among  the  watchmen,  for  three  had 
been  brought  before  him  within  the  last  quarter 
of  an  hour,  accused  of  the  same  offence. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Marshal  to  the  offi- 
cers who  had  accompanied  him,  "since  the 
scoundrel  refuses  to  confess,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  take  down  from  your  remembrance,  the 
words  of  his  atrocious  libel.  Let  them  be 
written  down  while  you  still  recollect  them. 
Come,  who  can  say  them  ?  " 

The  officer  of  police  wrote  to  the  dictation 
of  the  gentlemen  who  remembered  the  whole 
verses  between  them : 

' '  On  empty  head  a  flaunting  feather, 
A  long  queue  tied  with  tape  and  leather  ; 
Padded  breast  and  waist  so  little, 
Make  the  soldier  to  a  tittle  ; 
By  cards  and  dance,  and  dissipation, 
He  's  sure  to  win  a  Marshal's  station." 

"Do  you  deny,  you  rascal,"  cried  the  Field- 
Marshal  to  the  terrified  watchman;  "Do  you 
deny  that  you  sang  these  infamous  lines  as  I 
was  coming  out  of  my  house  ? ' ' 

"They  may  sing  it  who  like,  it  was  not  me," 
said  the  watchman. 

"Why  did  you  run  away,  then,  when  you 
saw  me?" 


B  Iftew  gear's  JBvc  63 

"  I  did  not  run  away." 

"  What !  "  said  the  two  officers  who  had  ac- 
companied the  Marshal — "not  run  away  ?  Were 
you  not  out  of  breath  when  at  last  we  laid  hold 
of  you  there  by  the  market  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  it  was  with  fright  at  being  so 
ferociously  attacked.  I  am  trembling  yet  in 
every  limb." 

"  Lock  the  obstinate  dog  up  till  the  morn- 
ing," said  the  Marshal;  "he  will  come  to  his 
senses  by  that  time  !  "  With  these  words  the 
wrathful  dignitary  went  away.  These  incidents 
had  set  the  whole  police  force  of  the  city  on  the 
qui  vive.  In  the  next  ten  minutes  two  more 
watchmen  were  brought  to  the  office  on  similar 
charges  with  the  others.  One  was  accused  of 
singing  a  libel  under  the  window  of  the  Min- 
ister of  Foreign  Affairs,  in  which  it  was  insin- 
uated that  there  were  no  affairs  to  which  he  was 
more  foreign  than  those  of  his  own  department. 
The  other  had  sung  some  verses  before  the  door 
of  the  Bishop's  palace,  informing  him  that  the 
"lights  of  the  church"  were  by  no  means 
deficient  in  tallow,  but  gave  a  great  deal  more 
smoke  than  illumination.  The  Prince,  who  had 
wrought  the  poor  watchmen  all  this  woe,  was 
always  lucky  enough  to  escape,  and  grew  bolder 
and  bolder  with  every  new  attempt.  The  affair 
was  talked  of  everywhere.      The  Minister  of 


64  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

Police,  who  was  at  cards  with  the  King,  was  in- 
formed of  the  insurrection  among  the  hitherto 
peaceful  watchmen,  and,  as  a  proof  of  it,  some 
of  the  verses  were  given  to  him  in  writing.  The 
King  laughed  very  heartily  at  the  doggerel 
verse  about  the  miserable  police  who  were 
always  putting  their  noses  into  other  people's 
family  affairs,  but  could  never  smell  any 
thing  amiss  in  their  own,  and  were  therefore 
lawful  game,  and  ordered  the  next  poetical 
watchman  who  should  be  taken  to  be  brought 
before  him.  He  broke  up  the  card-table,  for  he 
saw  that  the  Minister  of  Police  had  lost  his  good- 
humor. 

X. 

In  the  dancing-hall  next  to  the  card-room, 
Philip  had  looked  at  his  watch,  and  discovered 
that  the  time  of  his  appointment  with  Rose  at 
St.  Gregory's  had  nearly  come.  He  was  by  no 
means  sorry  at  the  prospect  of  giving  back  his 
silk  mantle  and  plumed  bonnet  to  his  substi- 
tute, for  he  began  to  find  high  life  not  quite  to 
his  taste.  As  he  was  going  to  the  door,  the 
Negro  once  more  came  up  to  him,  and  whis- 
pered :  "  Your  Highness,  Duke  Herrman  is  seek- 
ing for  you  everywhere."  Philip  shook  his 
head  impatiently  and  hurried  out,  followed  by 
the  Negro.     When  they  got  to  the  ante-cham- 


%  IRew  gear's  J£ve  65 

ber,  the  Negro  cried  out,  "By  Heaven,  here 
comes  the  Duke  !  " — and  slipped  back  into  the 
hall. 

A  tall  black  mask  walked  fiercely  up  to  Philip, 
and  said  :  "  Stay  a  moment,  sir  ;  I  've  a  word  or 
two  to  say  to  you ;  I  've  been  seeking  for  you 
long." 

"Quick,  then,"  said  Philip,  "for  I  have  no 
time  to  lose." 

"I  would  not  waste  a  moment,  sir;  I  have 
sought  you  long  enough  ;  you  owe  me  satisfac- 
tion, you  have  injured  me  infamously." 

' '  Not  that  I  am  aware  of. ' ' 

"You  don't  know  me,  perhaps,"  said  the 
Duke,  lifting  up  his  mask  ;  "now  that  you  see 
me,  your  own  conscience  will  save  me  anymore 
words.  I  demand  satisfaction.  You  and  the 
cursed  Salmoni  have  deceived  me  !  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  Philip. 

"You  got  up  that  shameful  scene  in  the  cellar 
of  the  baker's  daughter.  It  was  at  your  insti- 
gation that  Colonel  Kalt  made  an  assault  upon 
me  with  a  cudgel." 

"There  's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  what  you 
say." 

"  What ! — you  deny  it  ?  The  Lady  Blanken- 
swerd,  the  Marshal's  lady,  was  an  eye-witness  of 
it  all,  and  she  has  told  me  every  circumstance." 

1 '  She  has  told  your  grace  a  fancy  tale — I  have 


66  ^scbofcfce's  tales 

had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  if  you  made  an  ass 
of  yourself  in  the  baker's  cellar,  that  was  your 
own  fault." 

"  I  ask,  once  more,  will  you  give  me  satisfac- 
tion ?  If  not,  I  will  expose  you.  Follow  me 
instantly  to  the  King.  You  shall  either  fight 
with  me,  or — go  to  his  Majesty." 

Philip  was  non-plussed.  "Your  grace,"  he 
said,  "I  have  no  wish  either  to  fight  with  you 
or  to  go  to  the  King. ' ' 

This  was  indeed  the  truth,  for  he  was  afraid 
he  should  be  obliged  to  unmask,  and  would  be 
punished,  of  course,  for  the  part  he  had  played. 
He  therefore  tried  to  get  off  by  every  means, 
and  watched  the  door  to  seize  a  favorable 
moment  for  effecting  his  escape.  The  Duke,  on 
the  other  hand,  observed  the  uneasiness  of  the 
Prince  (as  he  thought  him),  and  waxed  more 
valorous  every  minute.  At  last  he  seized  poor 
Philip  by  the  arm,  and  was  dragging  him  into 
the  hall. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  said  Philip, 
sorely  frightened,  and  shook  off  the  Duke. 

"To  the  King.  He  shall  hear  how  shame- 
fully you  insult  a  guest  at  his  court." 

"Very  good,"  replied  Philip,  who  saw  no 
hope  of  escape,  except  by  continuing  the  char- 
acter of  the  Prince.  "Very  good.  Come,  then, 
I  am  ready.     By  good  luck  I  happen  to  have 


B  IRevv  gear's  JEvc  67 

the  agreement  with  me  between  you  and  the 
baker's  daughter,  in  which  you  promise " 

"Nonsense!  stuff!"  answered  the  Duke, 
"that  was  only  a  piece  of  fun,  which  maybe 
allowed  surely  with  a  baker's  daughter.  Show 
it  if  you  like,  I  will  explain  all  that." 

But  it  appeared  that  the  Duke  was  not  quite 
so  sure  of  the  explanation,  for  he  no  longer 
urged  Philip  to  go  before  the  King.  He,  how- 
ever, insisted  more  earnestly  than  ever  on 
getting  into  his  carriage,  and  going  that  mo- 
ment— Heaven  knows  where — to  decide  the 
matter  with  sword  and  pistol,  an  arrangement 
which  did  not  suit  our  watchman  at  all.  Philip 
pointed  out  the  danger  and  consequences^  of 
such  a  proceeding,  but  the  Duke  overruled  all 
objections.  He  had  made  every  preparation, 
and  when  it  was  over  he  wTould  leave  the  city 
that  same  night. 

"If  you  are  not  the  greatest  coward  in  Europe, 
you  will  follow  me  to  the  carriage — Prince  ! " 

"I— am — no — prince,"  at  last  stuttered  Phil- 
ip, now  driven  to  extremities. 

"  You  are  !  Everybody  recognized  you  at  the 
ball.  I  know  you  by  your  hat.  You  sha'n't 
escape  me." 

Philip  lifted  up  his  mask,  and  showed  the 
Duke  his  face. 

"  Now,  then,  am  I  a  prince  ?  " 


68  ^scbokfce's  Gales 

Duke  Herrman,  when  he  saw  the  countenance 
of  a  man  he  had  never  seen  before,  started  back, 
and  stood  gazing  as  if  he  had  been  petrified.  To 
have  revealed  his  secrets  to  a  perfect  stranger ! 
'T  was  horrible  beyond  conception  !  But  before 
he  had  recovered  from  his  surprise,  Philip  had 
opened  the  door  and  effected  his  escape. 

XI. 

The  moment  he  found  himself  at  liberty  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  feathers,  and  wrapping 
them  in  his  silk  mantle,  rushed  through  the 
streets  towards  St.  Gregory's,  carrying  them 
under  his  arm.  There  stood  Rose  already,  in  a 
corner  of  the  high  church  door,  expecting  his 
arrival. 

"  Ah,  Philip,  dear  Philip,"  she  said,  pressing 
his  hand,  "how  happy  you  have  made  me! 
how  lucky  we  are !  I  was  very  uneasy  to  get 
away  from  my  friend's  house,  and  I  have  been 
waiting  here  this  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  never 
cared  for  the  frost  and  snow — my  happiness  was 
so  great :  I  am  so  glad  you  're  come  back." 

"And  I  too,  dear  Rose,  thank  God  that  I  have 
got  back  to  you.  May  the  eagles  fly  away  with 
these  trinkum-trankums  of  great  people.  But 
I  '11  tell  you  some  other  time  of  the  scenes  I  've 
had.  Tell  me  now,  my  darling,  how  you  are, 
and  whether  you  love  me  still !  " 


B  fttew  gear's  Bv>e  69 

"Ah!  Philip,  you've  become  a  great  man 
now,  and  it  would  be  better  to  ask  if  you  still 
care  any  thing  for  me. ' ' 

"  Thunder  !  How  came  you  to  know  so  soon 
that  I  've  been  a  great  man  ?  " 

"Why  you  told  me  yourself.  Ah!  Philip, 
Philip,  I  only  hope  you  won't  be  proud,  now 
that  you  've  growu  so  rich.  I  am  but  a  poor 
girl,  and  not  good  enough  for  you  now — and  I 
have  been  thinking,  Philip,  if  you  forsake  me, 
I  would  rather  have  had  you  continue  a  poor 
gardener.  I  should  fret  myself  to  death  if  you 
forsook  me." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Rose?  'T  is 
true  that  for  one  half  hour  I  have  been  a  prince  ; 
't  was  but  a  joke,  and  I  want  no  more  of  such 
jokes  in  my  life.  Now  I  am  a  watchman  again, 
and  as  poor  as  ever.  To  be  sure,  I  have  five 
thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket,  that  I  got  from 
a  Mameluke  ;  that  would  make  us  rich,  but  un- 
fortunately they  don't  belong  to  me  !  " 

"You're  speaking  nonsense,  Philip,"  said 
Rose,  giving  him  the  purse  of  gold  that  the 
Prince  had  given  her.  "Here,  take  back  your 
money,  't  is  too  heavy  for  my  bag." 

"  What  should  I  do  with  all  this  gold  ?  Where 
did  you  get  it,  Rose  ?  " 

"  You  won  it  in  the  lottery,  Philip." 

"What!    have  I  won?   and  they  told  me  at 


7o  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

the  office  my  number  was  not  yet  out.  I  had 
hoped  and  wished  that  it  might  come  to  give  us 
a  setting  up  in  the  world  ;  but  gardener  Redman 
said  to  me  as  I  went  a  second  time  towards  the 
office  :  '  Poor  Philip — a  blank.'  Huzzah  !  I  have 
won  !  Now  I  will  buy  a  large  garden  and  marry 
you.     How  much  is  it  ?  " 

"Are  you  crazy,  Philip,  or  have  you  drunk 
too  much  ?  You  must  know  better  than  I  can 
tell  you  how  much  it  is.  I  only  looked  at  it 
quietly  under  the  table  at  my  friend's,  and  was 
frightened  to  see  so  many  glittering  coins,  all 
of  gold,  Philip.  Ah!  then  I  thought,  no 
wonder  Philip  was  so  impertinent — for,  you 
know,  you  were  very  impertinent,  Philip, — 
but  I  can't  blame  you  for  it.  Oh,  I  could 
throw  my  own  arms  round  your  neck  and  cry 
for  joy." 

"  Rose,  if  you  will  do  it  I  shall  make  no  ob- 
jections. But  there  's  some  misunderstanding 
here.  Who  was  it  that  gave  you  this  money, 
and  told  you  it  was  my  prize  in  the  lottery  ?  I 
have  my  ticket  safe  in  my  drawer  at  home,  and 
nobody  has  asked  me  for  it." 

"  Ah  !  Philip,  don't  play  your  jokes  on  me  ! 
you  yourself  told  me  it  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
gave  me  the  purse  with  your  own  hand." 

"Rose — try  to  recollect  yourself.  This  morn- 
ing I  saw  you  at  mass,  and  we  agreed  to  meet 


B  1Revv  gear's  Mvc  71 

here  to-night,  but  since  that  time  I  have  not 
seen  you  for  an  instant." 

"  No,  except  half  an  hour  ago,  when  I  saw  you 
at  Steinman's  door.  But  what  is  that  bundle 
under  your  arm?  why  are  you  without  a  hat 
this  cold  night  ?  Philip  !  Philip  !  be  careful. 
All  that  gold  may  turn  your  brain. — You  've 
been  in  some  tavern,  Philip,  and  have  drunk 
more  than  you  should.  But  tell  me,  what  is 
in  the  bundle  ?  Why — here  's  a  woman's  silk 
gown. — Philip,  Philip,  where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"Certainly  not  with  you  half  an  hour  ago; 
you  want  to  play  tricks  on  me,  I  fancy ; 
where  have  you  got  that  money,  I  should  like 
to  know?  " 

"  Answer  me  first,  Philip,  where  you  got  that 
woman's  gown.     Where  have  you  been,  sir  ?  " 

They  were  both  impatient  for  explanations, 
both  a  little  jealous — and  finally  began  to 
quarrel. 

XII. 

But  as  this  was  a  lover's  quarrel,  it  ended 
as  lover's  quarrels  invariably  do.  When  Rose 
took  out  her  white  pocket-handkerchief,  put  it 
to  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  turned  away  her  head 
as  the  sighs  burst  forth  from  her  breast,  this 
sole  argument  proved  instantly  that  she  was  in 
the  right,  and  Philip  decidedly  in  the  wrong. 


72  Zscbofcfce's  Gales 

He  confessed  lie  was  to  blame  for  every  thing, 
and  told  her  that  he  had  been  at  a  masked 
ball,  and  that  his  bundle  was  not  a  silk  gown, 
but  a  man's  mantle  and  a  hat  and  feathers.  And 
now  he  had  to  undergo  a  rigid  examination. 
Every  maiden  knows  that  a  masked  ball  is  a 
dangerous  maze  for  unprotected  hearts.  It  is  lik  e 
plunging  into  a  whelming  sea  of  dangers,  and 
you  will  be  drowned  if  you  are  not  a  good  swim- 
mer. Rose  did  not  consider  Philip  the  best 
swimmer  in  the  world — it  is  difficult  to  say 
why.  He  denied  having  danced,  but  when  she 
asked  him,  he  could  not  deny  having  talked 
wTith  some  feminine  masks.  He  related  the 
whole  story  to  her,  yet  would  constantly  add : 
"  The  ladies  were  of  high  rank,  and  they  took  me 
for  another."  Rose  doubted  him  a  little,  but 
she  suppressed  her  resentment  until  he  said  they 
took  him  for  Prince  Julian.  Then  she  shook 
her  little  head,  and  still  more  when  she  heard 
that  Prince  Julian  was  transformed  into  a  watch- 
man while  Philip  was  at  the  ball.  But  he  smoth- 
ered her  doubts  by  saying  that  in  a  few  minutes 
the  Prince  would  appear  at  St.  Gregory's  Church 
and  exchange  his  watch-coat  for  the  mask. 

Rose,  in  return,  related  all  her  adventure  ;  but 
when  she  came  to  the  incident  of  the  kiss 

"  Hold  there  !  "  cried  Philip  ;  "  I  did  n't  kiss 
you,  nor,  I  am  sure,  did  you  kiss  me  in  return." 


21  IRew  gear's  Bve  73 

"lam  sure  't  was  intended  for  you,  then," 
replied  Rose,  whilst  her  lover  rubbed  his  hair 
down,  for  fear  it  should  stand  on  end. 

"If  't  was  not  you,"  continued  Rose,  anx- 
iously, "I  will  believe  all  that  you  have  been 
telling  me." 

But  as  she  went  on  in  her  story  a  light  seemed 
to  break  in  on  her,  and  she  exclaimed  :  "  And 
after  all,  I  do  not  believe  it  was  Prince  Julian  in 
your  coat !  " 

Philip  was  certain  it  was,  and  cried:  "The 
rascal  !  He  stole  my  kisses — now  I  understand  ! 
That  's  the  reason  why  he  wanted  to  take  my 
place  and  gave  me  his  mask  !  "  And  now  the 
stories  he  had  heard  at  the  masquerade  came 
into  Philip's  head.  He  asked  if  anybody  had 
called  at  her  mother's  to  offer  her  money ;  if 
any  gentleman  was  much  about  Milk  Street ;  if 
she  saw  any  one  watching  her  at  church  ;  but  to 
all  his  questions  her  answers  were  so  satisfac- 
tory, that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  of  her  total 
ignorance  of  all  the  machinations  of  the  ras- 
cally courtiers.  He  warned  her  against  all  the 
advances  of  philanthropical  and  compassionate 
princes — and  Rose  warned  him  against  the  dan- 
gers of  a  masked  ball  and  adventures  with  ladies 
of  rank,  by  which  many  young  men  have  been 
made  unhappy — and  as  every  thing  was  now 
forgiven,  in  consideration  of  the  kiss  not  hav- 


74  Zecbokke'3  Gales 

ing  been  wilfully  bestowed,  he  was  on  the  point 
of  claiming  for  himself  the  one  of  which  he  had 
been  cheated,  when  his  designs  were  interrupt- 
ed by  an  unexpected  incident.  A  man  out  of 
breath  with  his  rapid  flight,  rushed  against  them. 
By  the  great-coat,  staff,  and  horn,  Philip  recog- 
nised his  deputy.  He,  on  the  other  hand, 
snatched  at  the  silk  cloak  and  hat.  "  Ah  ! 
sir,"  said  Philip,  "here  are  your  things.  I 
would  not  change  places  with  you  again  in 
this  world  !  I  should  be  no  gainer  by  the 
operation." 

"  Quick  !  quick  !  "  cried  the  Prince,  and  threw 
the  watchman's  apparel  on  the  snow  and  fast- 
ened on  his  mask,  hat,  and  cloak.  Philip  re- 
turned to  his  old  beaver  and  coat,  and  took  up 
the  lanthorn  and  staff.  Rose  had  shrunk  back 
into  the  door. 

"  I  promised  thee  a  dole,  comrade — but  it  's  a 
positive  fact — I  have  not  got  my  purse." 

"I  've  got  it  here,"  said  Philip,  and  held  it 
out  to  him.  "You  gave  it  to  my  intended 
there  ;  but,  please  your  Highness,  I  must  for- 
bid all  presents  in  that  quarter." 

"  Comrade,  keep  what  you  've  got,  and  be  off 
as  quick  as  you  can.     You  are  not  safe  here." 

The  Prince  was  flying  off  as  he  spoke,  but 
Philip  held  him  by  the  mantle. 

"  One  thing,  my  Lord,  we  have  to  settle " 


B  IRew  gear's  j£x>e  75 

"  Run  !  Watchman  !  I  tell  you.  They  're  in 
search  of  you." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  run  for.  But  your  purse, 
here " 

"  Keep  it,  I  tell  you.     Fly!  if  you  can  run." 

"  And  a  billet  of  Marshal  Blankenswerd's  for 
five  thousand  dollars' " 

"Ha!  what  the  plague  do  you  know  about 
Marshal  Blankenswerd  ?  " 

' '  He  said  it  was  a  gambling  debt  he  owed 
you.  He  and  his  lady  start  to-night  for  their 
estates  in  Poland." 

"Are  you  mad?  how  do  you  know  that? 
Who  gave  you  the  message  for  me?" 

"And,  your  Highness,  the  Minister  of  Finance 
will  pay  all  your  debts  to  Abraham  Levi  and 
others  if  you  will  use  your  influence  with  the 
king  to  keep  him  in  office." 

"  Watchman  !  you  've  been  tampering  with 
Old  Nick." 

"  But  I  rejected  the  offer." 

"  You  rejected  the  offer  of  the  Minister  ?  " 

"Yes,  your  Highness.  And,  moreover,  I  have 
entirely  reconciled  the  Baroness  Bonau  with  the 
Chamberlain  Pilzou." 

"  Which  of  us  two  is  a  fool  ?  " 

"Another  thing,  your  Highness.  Signora 
Rollina  is  a  bad  woman.  I  have  heard  of  some 
love  affairs  of  hers.     You  are  deceived — I  there- 


it  ^scbofcfce'e  Cales 

fore  thought  her  not  worthy  of  your  attentions, 
and  put  off  the  meeting  to-night  at  her  house." 

"  Signora  Rollina  !  How  did  you  come  to  hear 
of  her?" 

"  Another  thing.  Duke  Herrman  is  terribly 
enraged  about  that  business  in  the  cellar.  He 
is  going  to  complain  of  you  to  the  King." 

"  The  Duke  !     Who  told  you  about  that  ? " 

"Himself.  You  are  not  secure  yet — but  I 
don't  think  he  '11  go  to  the  King,  for  I  threat- 
ened him  with  his  agreement  with  the  baker's 
daughter.  But  he  wants  to  fight  you ;  be  on 
your  guard. ' ' 

"Once  for  all — do  you  know  how  the  Duke 
was  informed  of  all  this  ?  " 

"Through  the  Marshal's  wife.  She  told  all, 
and  confessed  she  had  acted  the  witch  in  the 
ghost-raising." 

The  Prince  took  Philip  by  the  arm.  "My 
good  fellow,"  he  said,  "  you  are  no  watch- 
man." He  turned  his  face  towards  a  lamp, 
and  started  when  he  saw  the  face  of  this 
strange  man. 

"  Are  you  possessed  by  Satan,  or  .  .  .  Who 
are  you?"  said  Julian,  who  had  now  become 
quite  sober. 

"lam  Philip  Stark,  the  gardener,  son  of  old 
Gottlieb  Stark,  the  watchman,"  said  Philip, 
quietly. 


B  Bevv  gear's  Bve  77 

XIII. 

"Lay  hold  on  him!  That  's  the  man!" 
cried  many  voices,  and  Philip,  Rose,  and  Julian 
saw  themselves  surrounded  by  six  lusty  servants 
of  the  police.  Rose  screamed,  Philip  took  her 
hand,  and  told  her  not  to  be  alarmed.  The 
Prince  clapped  his  hand  on  Philip's  shoulder. 

"'T  is  a  stupid  business,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
should  have  escaped  when  I  told  you.  But 
don't  be  frightened  ;  there  shall  no  harm  befall 
you." 

"That  's  to  be  seen,"  said  one  of  the  captors. 
"  In  the  meantime  he  must  come  along  with  us." 

"Where  to  ?  "  inquired  Philip  ;  "lam  doing 
my  duty.     I  am  watchman  of  this  beat." 

"  That 's  the  reason  we  take  you.     Come." 

The  Prince  stepped  forward.  "Let  the  man 
go,  good  people,"  he  said,  and  searched  in  all 
his  pockets  for  his  purse.  As  he  found  it  no- 
where, he  was  going  to  whisper  to  Philip  to 
give  it  him,  but  the  police  tore  them  apart,  and 
one  of  them  shouted  :  "  On  !  We  can't  stop  to 
talk  here." 

"The  masked  fellow  must  go  with  us  too; 
he  is  suspicious-looking." 

"Not  so,"  exclaimed  Philip;  "you  are  in 
search  of  the  watchman.  Here  I  am,  if  you 
choose  to  answer  for  taking  me  from  my  duty. 
But  let  this  gentleman  go." 


78  Zschchke'e  Gales 

"We  don't  want  any  lessons  from  you  in  our 
duty,"  replied  the  sergeant;  "march!  all  of 
them  !" 

' '  The  damsel  too  ?  "  asked  Philip  ;  ' '  you  don '  t 
want  her  surely  !  " 

"  No,  she  may  go ;  but  we  must  see  her  face, 
and  take  down  her  name  and  residence  ;  it  may 
be  of  use." 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  widow  Bittner, "  said 
Philip ;  and  was  not  a  little  enraged  when  the 
whole  party  took  Rose  to  a  lamp  and  gazed  on 
her  tearful  face. 

"Go  home,  Rose,  and  don't  be  alarmed  on 
my  account,"  said  Philip,  trying  to  comfort  her  ; 
"my  conscience  is  clear." 

But  Rose  sobbed  so  as  to  move  even  the 
policemen  to  pity  her.  The  Prince,  availing 
himself  of  the  opportunity,  attempted  to  spring 
out  of  his  captors'  hands,  but  one  of  the  men 
was  a  better  jumper  than  he,  and  put  an  obstacle 
in  his  way. 

"Hallo!"  cried  the  sergeant,  "this  fellow's 
conscience  is  not  quite  so  clear  ;  hold  him  firm  ; 
march  ! ' ' 

"Whither  ?  "  said  the  Prince. 

"  Directly  to  the  Minister  of  Police." 

"Listen,"  said  the  Prince,  seriously  but  af- 
fably, for  he  did  not  like  the  turn  affairs  were 
taking,  as  he  was  anxious  to  keep  his  watchman 


B  1Rew  gear's  Ev>e  79 

frolic  concealed.  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  business.  I  belong  to  the  court.  If  you 
venture  to  force  me  to  go  with  you,  you  will  be 
sorry  for  it  when  you  are  feasting  on  bread  and 
water  to-morrow  in  prison." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  the  gentleman  go," 
cried  Philip  ;  "I  give  you  my  word  he  is  a  great 
lord,  and  will  make  you  repent  your  conduct. 
He  is " 

"Hush  ;  be  silent,"  interrupted  Julian  ;  "tell 
no  human  being  wTho  I  am.  Whatever  happens 
keep  my  name  a  secret.  Do  you  hear  ?  an  en- 
tire secret  from  every  one  !  " 

"  We  do  our  duty,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  and 
nobody  can  punish  us  for  that  ;  you  may  go  to 
a  prison  yourself;  we  have  often  had  fellows 
speak  as  high,  and  threaten  as  fiercely ; 
forward  ! " 

"Men!  take  advice;  he  is  a  distinguished 
man  at  court." 

"If  it  were  a  king  himself  he  should  go  with 
us.  He  is  a  suspicious  character,  and  we  must 
do  our  duty." 

While  the  contest  about  the  Prince  went  on, 
a  carriage,  with  eight  horses  and  outriders, 
bearing  flambeaux,  drove  past  the  church. 

"  Stop  ! "  said  a  voice  from  the  carriage,  as  it 
was  passing  the  crowd  of  policemen  who  had 
the  Prince  in  custody. 


80  Zscbckke's  Zalcs 

The  carriage  stopped.  The  door  flew  open, 
and  a  gentleman,  with  a  brilliant  star  on  the 
breast  of  his  surtout,  leaped  out.  He  pushed 
through  the  party,  and  examined  the  Prince 
from  head  to  foot. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "I  knew  the  bird  by 
his  feathers.      Mask,  who  are  you?  " 

Julian  was  taken  by  surprise,  for  in  the  in- 
quirer he  recognized  Duke  Hernnan. 

"Answer  me,"  roared  Herrman  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

Julian  shook  his  head,  and  made  signs  to  the 
Duke  to  desist,  but  he  pressed  the  question 
home  upon  him,  being  determined  to  know  who 
it  was  he  had  accosted  at  the  masquerade.  He 
asked  the  policemen.  They  stood  with  heads 
uncovered,  and  told  him  they  had  orders  to 
bring  the  watchman  instantly  before  the  Minis- 
ter of  Police,  for  he  had  been  singing  wicked 
verses  ;  they  had  heard  some  of  them  ;  that 
the  mask  had  given  himself  out  as  some  great 
lord  of  the  court,  but  that  they  believed  that  to 
be  a  false  pretence,  and  therefore  considered  it 
their  duty7  to  take  him  into  custody. 

"The  man  is  not  of  the  court,"  answered  the 
Duke  ;  "take  my  word  for  that.  He  insinuated 
himself  clandestinely  into  the  ball,  and  passed 
himself  off  for  Prince  Julian.  I  forced  him  to 
unmask,  and  detected  the  impostor,  but  he  es- 


B  1Rew  gear's  Eve  81 

caped  me.  I  have  informed  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain ;  off  with  him  to  the  palace !  You  have 
made  a  fine  prize  !  " 

With  these  words  the  Duke  strode  back  to  his 
carriage,  and  once  more  urging  them  not  to  let 
the  villains  escape,  gave  orders  to  drive  on. 

The  Prince  saw  no  chance  left.  To  reveal 
himself  now  would  be  to  make  his  night's  ad- 
ventures the  talk  of  the  whole  city.  He  thought 
it  better  to  disclose  his  incognito  to  the  Cham- 
berlain or  the  Minister  of  Police.  "Since  it 
must  be  so,  come  on  then,"  he  said  ;  and  the 
party  marched  forward,  keeping  a  firm  hand  on 
the  two  prisoners. 

XIV. 

Philip  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  be- 
witched, or  whether  the  whole  business  was  not 
a  dream,  for  it  was  a  night  such  as  he  had  never 
passed  before  in  his  life.  He  had  nothing  to 
blame  himself  for  except  that  he  had  changed 
clothes  with  the  Prince,  and  then,  wThether  he 
would  or  no,  been  forced  to  support  his  charac- 
ter. He  felt  pretty  safe,  for  it  was  the  princely 
watchman  who  had  been  at  fault,  and  he  saw  no 
occasion  for  his  being  committed.  His  heart 
beat,  however,  when  they  came  to  the  palace. 
His  coat,  horn,  and  staff  were  taken  from  him. 
Julian  spoke  a  few  words  to  a  young  nobleman, 


32  ^scbofcfce'*  Gales 

and  immediately  the  policemen  were  sent 
away.  The  Prince  ascended  the  stairs,  and 
Philip  had  to  follow. 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  Julian,  and  left  him. 
Philip  was  taken  to  a  little  anteroom,  where  he 
had  to  wait  a  good  while.  At  last  one  of  the 
royal  grooms  came  to  him,  and  said:  "Come 
this  way;  the  King  will  see  you." 

Philip  was  distracted  with  fear.  His  knees 
shook  so  that  he  could  hardly  walk.  He  was 
led  into  a  splendid  chamber.  The  old  King  was 
sitting  at  a  table,  and  laughing  long  and  loud  ; 
near  him  stood  Prince  Julian  without  a  mask. 
Besides  these,  there  was  nobody  in  the  room. 

The  King  looked  at  Philip  with  a  good-hu- 
mored expression.  ' '  Tell  me  all — without  miss- 
ing a  syllable — that  you  have  done  to-night." 

Philip  took  courage  from  the  condescension 
of  the  old  King,  and  told  the  whole  story  from 
beginning  to  end.  He  had  the  good  sense,  how- 
ever, to  conceal  all  he  had  heard  among  the 
courtiers  that  could  turn  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
Prince.  The  King  laughed  again  and  again, 
and  at  last  took  two  gold  pieces  from  his  pocket 
and  gave  them  to  Philip.  "  Here,  my  son,  take 
these,  but  say  not  a  word  of  your  night's  adven- 
tures. Await  your  trial  ;  no  harm  shall  come  of 
it  to  you.  Now  go,  my  friend,  and  remember 
what  I  have  told  you." 


B  IWew  gear's  iBvc  83 

Philip  knelt  down  at  the  King's  feet  and 
kissed  his  hand  as  he  stammered  some  words  of 
thanks.  When  he  arose,  and  was  leaving  the 
room,  Prince  Julian  said  :  "I  beseech  your  Ma- 
jesty to  allow  the  young  man  to  wait  a  few  min- 
utes outside.  I  have  some  compensation  to  make 
to  him  for  the  inconvenience  he  has  suffered." 

The  King  smiling  nodded  his  assent,  and 
Philip  left  the  apartment. 

"Prince!"  said  the  King,  holding  up  his 
forefinger  in  a  threatening  manner  to  his  son, 
"  't  is  well  for  you  that  you  told  me  nothing  but 
the  truth.  For  this  time  I  must  pardon  your 
wild  scrape,  but  if  such  a  thing  happens  again 
you  will  offend  me.  There  will  be  no  excuse 
for  you  !  I  must  take  Duke  Herrman  in  hand 
myself.  I  shall  not  be  sorry  if  we  can  get  quit 
of  him.  As  to  the  Ministers  of  Finance  and 
Police,  I  must  have  further  proofs  of  what  you 
say.  Go  now,  and  give  some  present  to  the 
gardener.  He  has  shown  more  discretion  in 
your  character  than  you  have  in  his." 

The  Prince  took  leave  of  the  King,  and  hav- 
ing changed  his  dress  in  an  ante-room,  sent  for 
Philip  to  go  to  his  palace  with  him  ;  there  he 
made  him  go  over — word  for  word — every  thing 
that  had  occurred.  When  Philip  had  finished  his 
narrative,  the  Prince  clapped  him  on  the  shoul- 
der and  said  :  "  Philip,  listen  !     You  're  a  sen- 


84  ^scbofcfce's  £ates 

sible  fellow.  I  can  confide  in  you,  and  I  am 
satisfied  with  you.  What  you  have  done  in  my 
name  with  the  Chamberlain  Pilzou,  the  Countess 
Bonau,  the  Marshal  and  his  wife,  Colonel  Kalt, 
and  the  Minister  of  Finance — I  will  maintain — 
as  if  I  had  done  it  myself.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  must  take  all  the  blame  of  my  doings 
with  the  horn  and  staff.  As  a  penalty  for  your 
verses,  you  shall  lose  your  office  of  watchman. 
You  shall  be  my  head-gardener  from  this  date, 
and  have  charge  of  my  two  gardens  at  Heim- 
leben  and  Ouellenthal.  The  money  I  gave  your 
bride  she  shall  keep  as  her  marriage-portion, — 
and  I  give  you  the  order  of  Marshal  Blanken- 
swerd  for  five  thousand  dollars,  as  a  mark  of 
my  regard.  Go,  now  ;  be  faithful  and  true  !  " 
Who  could  be  happier  than  Philip  !  He  almost 
flew  to  Rose's  house.  She  had  not  yet  gone  to 
bed,  but  sat  with  her  mother  beside  a  table,  and 
was  weeping.  He  threw  the  purse  on  the  table 
and  said  :  "  Rose,  there  is  thy  dowry  !  and  here 
are  five  thousand  dollars,  which  are  mine  !  Asa 
watchman  I  have  transgressed,  and  shall  there- 
fore lose  my  father's  situation  ;  but  the  day  after 
to-morrow  I  shall  go,  as  head-gardener  of  Prince 
Julian,  toHeimleben.  And  you,  mother  and  Rose, 
must  go  with  me.  My  father  and  mother  also.  I 
can  support  you  all.  Huzza  !  God  send  all  good 
people  such  a  happy  New  Year  !  " 


B  IRew  gear's  JBvc  85 

Mother  Bittner  hardly  knew  whether  to  be- 
lieve Philip  or  not,  notwithstanding  she  saw 
the  gold.  But  when  he  told  her  how  it  had  all 
happened — though  with  some  reservations — she 
wept  with  joy,  embraced  him,  laid  her  daughter 
on  his  breast,  and  then  danced  about  the  room 
in  a  perfect  ecstasy.  "  Do  thy  father  and 
mother  know  this,  Philip?"  she  said.  And 
when  he  answered  no,  she  cried  :  "  Rose,  kin- 
dle the  fire,  put  over  the  water,  and  make  some 
coffee  for  all  of  us."  She  then  wrapped  herself 
in  her  little  woollen  shawl  and  left  the  house. 

But  Rose  lay  on  Philip's  breast,  and  forgot 
all  about  the  wood  and  water.  And  there  she 
yet  lay  when  Mother  Bittner  returned  with  old 
Gottlieb  and  Mother  Katherine.  They  sur- 
rounded their  children  and  blessed  them. 
Mother  Bittner  saw  if  she  wanted  coffee,  she 
would  be  obliged  to  cook  it  herself. 

Philip  lost  his  situation  as  watchman.  Rose 
became  his  wife  in  two  weeks  ;  their  parents 
went  with  them  to ;  but  this  does  not  be- 
long to  the  adventures  of  a  New  Year's  Eve,  a 
night  more  ruinous  to  the  Minister  of  Finance 
than  any  one  else  ;  neither  have  we  heard  of 
any  more  pranks  by  the  wild  Prince  Julian.* 

*  I11  some  parts  of  this  translation  the  editor  has  been 
assisted  by  a  very  spirited,  but  quite  imperfect  version 
of  it,  which  appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  several 
years  since. 


THE  BROKEN  PITCHER 


THE   BROKEN  PITCHER.* 


MARIETTA. 


NAPOUIvE,  it  is  true,  is  only  a  very  little 
place  on  the  Bay  of  Cannes  ;  yet  it  is 
pretty  well  known  through  all  Provence.  It 
lies  in  the  shade  of  lofty  evergreen  palms  and 
darker  orange-trees  ;  but  that  alone  would  not 
make  it  renowned.  Still  they  say  that  there 
are  grown  the  most  luscious  grapes,  the  sweet- 
est roses,   and  the  handsomest  girls.     I  don't 

*  There  is  extant,  under  this  name,  a  short  piece  by 
the  author  of  "  Little  Kate  of  Heilbi onn. ' '  That  and  the 
tale  which  here  follows  originated  in  an  incident  which 
took  place  at  Bern  in  the  year  1802.  Henry  Von  Kleist, 
and  Ludwig  Wieland,  the  son  of  the  poet,  were  both 
friends  of  the  writer,  in  whose  chamber  hung  an  en- 
graving called  I,a  Cruche  Cassee,  the  persons  and  con- 
tents of  which  resembled  the  scene  set  forth  below  under 
the  head  of  The  Tribunal.  The  drawing,  which  was 
full  of  expression,  gave  great  delight  to  those  who  saw 
it,  and  led  to  many  conjectures  as  to  its  meaning.  The 
three  friends  agreed,  in  sport,  that  they  would  each  one 
day  commit  to  writing  his  peculiar  interpretation  of  its 
design.  Wieland  promised  a  satire  ;  Von  Kleist  threw 
off  a  comedy  ;  and  the  author  of  the  following  tale,  what 
is  here  given. 


go  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

know  but  it  is  so  ;  in  the  meantime  I  believe 
it  most  readily.  Pity  that  Napoule  is  so  small, 
and  cannot  produce  more  luscious  grapes,  fra- 
grant roses,  and  handsome  maidens  ;  especially 
as  we  might  then  have  some  of  them  trans- 
planted to  our  own  country. 

As  ever  since  the  foundation  of  Napoule  all 
the  Napoulese  women  have  been  beauties,  so 
the  little  Marietta  was  a  wonder  of  wonders,  as 
the  chronicles  of  the  place  declare.  She  was 
called  the  little  Marietta ;  yet  she  was  not 
smaller  than  a  girl  of  seventeen  or  thereabouts 
ought  to  be,  seeing  that  her  forehead  just  reached 
up  to  the  lips  of  a  grown  man. 

The  chronicles  aforesaid  had  very  good 
ground  for  speaking  of  Marietta.  I,  had  I 
stood  in  the  shoes  of  the  chronicler,  would 
have  done  the  same.  For  Marietta,  who  until 
lately  had  lived  with  her  mother  Manon  at 
Avignon,  when  she  came  back  to  her  birth- 
place quite  upset  the  whole  village.  Verily, 
not  the  houses  but  the  people  and  their  heads  ; 
and  not  the  heads  of  all  the  people,  but  of  those 
particularly  whose  heads  and  hearts  are  always 
in  great  danger,  when  in  the  neighborhood  of 
two  bright  eyes.  I  know  very  well  that  such  a 
position  is  no  joke. 

Mother  Manon  would  have  done  much  better 
if  she  had  remained  at  Avignon.     But  she  had 


Gbe  broken  pttcber  91 

been  left  a  small  inheritance,  by  which  she  re- 
ceived at  Napoule  an  estate  consisting  of  some 
vine-hills,  and  a  house  that  lay  in  the  shadow 
of  a  rock,  between  certain  olive  trees  and  Afri- 
can acacias.  This  is  a  kind  of  thing  which  no 
unprovided  widow  ever  rejects  ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, in  her  own  estimation  she  was  as  rich 
and  happy  as  though  she  were  the  Countess  of 
Provence  or  something  like  it. 

So  much  the  worse  was  it  for  the  good  people 
of  Napoule.  They  never  suspected  their  mis- 
fortune, not  having  read  in  Homer  how  a  single 
pretty  woman  had  filled  all  Greece  and  Lesser 
Asia  with  discord  and  war. 

HOW  THE   MISFORTUNE    CAME  ABOUT. 

Marietta  had  scarcely  been  fourteen  days  in 
the  house,  between  the  olive  trees  and  the  Afri- 
can acacias,  before  every  young  man  of  Napoule 
knew  that  she  lived  there,  and  that  there  lived 
not  in  all  Provence  a  more  charming  girl  than 
the  one  in  that  house. 

Went  she  through  the  village,  sweeping  light- 
ly along  like  a  dressed-up  angel,  her  frock,  with 
its  pale-green  bodice,  and  orange  leaves  and 
rose-buds  upon  the  bosom  of  it,  fluttering  in  the 
breeze,  and  flowers  and  ribbons  waving  about 
the  straw  bonnet  which  shaded  her  beautiful 


92  Zechokhc's  Gales 

features, — yes,  then  the  grave  old  men  spake 
out,  and  the  young  ones  were  struck  dumb. 
And  everywhere,  to  the  right  and  left,  little 
windows  and  doors  were  opened  with  a  "  good- 
morning,"  or  a  "good-evening,  Marietta,"  as  it 
might  be,  while  she  nodded  to  the  right  and 
left  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

If  Marietta  walked  into  the  church,  all  hearts 
(that  is,  of  the  young  people)  forgot  Heaven  ; 
all  eyes  turned  from  the  Saints,  and  the  wor- 
shipping finger  wandered  idly  among  the  pearls 
of  the  rosary.  This  must  certainly  have  pro- 
voked much  sorrow,  at  least  among  the  more 
devout. 

The  maidens  of  Napoule  particularly  became 
very  pious  about  this  time,  for  they,  most  of  all, 
took  the  matter  to  heart.  And  they  were  not  to 
be  blamed  for  it ;  for  since  the  advent  of  Mari- 
etta, more  than  one  prospective  groom  had 
become  cold,  and  more  than  one  worshipper  of 
some  beloved  one,  quite  inconstant.  There 
were  bickerings  and  reproaches  on  all  sides, 
many  tears,  pertinent  lectures,  and  even  rejec- 
tions. The  talk  was  no  longer  of  marriages,  but 
of  separations.  They  began  to  return  their 
pledges  of  truth,  rings,  ribbons,  etc.  The  old 
persons  took  part  with  their  children  ;  crimina- 
tions and  strife  spread  from  house  to  house  ;  it 
was  most  deplorable, 


tXbe  $rofcen  flMtcber  93 


Marietta  is  the  cause  of  all,  said  the  pious 
maidens,  first ;  then,  the  mothers  said  it ;  next 
the  fathers  took  it  up  ;  and  finally,  all — even  the 
young  men.  But  Marietta,  shielded  by  modesty 
and  innocence,  like  the  petals  of  the  rose-bud 
in  its  dark-green  calix,  did  not  suspect  the 
mischief  of  which  she  was  the  occasion,  and 
continued  courteous  to  everybody.  This  touched 
the  young  men,  who  said  :  "why  condemn  the 
pure  and  harmless  child — she  is  not  guilty  !  " 
Then  the  fathers  said  the  same  thing  ;  then  the 
mothers  took  it  up  ;  and  finally,  all — even  the 
pious  maidens.  For,  let  who  would  talk  with 
Marietta,  she  was  sure  to  gain  their  esteem.  So 
before  half  a  year  had  passed,  everybody  had 
spoken  to  her,  and  everybody  loved  her.  But 
she  did  not  suspect  that  she  was  the  object  of 
such  general  regard,  as  she  had  not  before  sus- 
pected that  she  was  the  object  of  dislike.  Does 
the  violet,  hidden  in  the  down-trodden  grass, 
think  how  sweet  it  is  ? 

Now,  every  one  wished  to  make  amends 
for  the  injustice  they  had  done  Marietta. 
Sympathy  deepened  the  tenderness  of  their  at- 
tachment. Marietta  found  herself  greeted 
everywhere  in  a  more  friendly  way  than 
ever ;  she  was  more  cordially  welcomed ; 
more  heartily  invited  to  the  rural  sports  and 
dances. 


94  Zscbokke's  Galea 

ABOUT  THE   WICKED   COEIN. 

AeI/  men,  however,  are  not  endowed  with  ten- 
der sympathy  ;  but  some  have  hearts  hardened 
like  Pharaoh's.  This  arises,  no  doubt,  from  that 
natural  depravity  which  has  come  upon  men 
in  consequence  of  the  fall  of  Adam,  or  because, 
at  their  baptism,  the  devil  is  not  brought  suffi- 
ciently under  subjection. 

A  remarkable  example  of  this  hardness  of 
heart  was  given  by  one  Colin,  the  richest 
farmer  and  proprietor  in  Napoule,  whose  vine- 
yards and  olive  gardens,  whose  lemon  and 
orange  trees  could  hardly  be  counted  in  a  day. 
One  thing  particularly  demonstrates  the  per- 
verseness  of  his  disposition  ;  he  was  twenty- 
seven  years  old,  and  had  never  yet  asked  for 
what  purpose  girls  had  been  created  ! 

True,  all  the  people,  especially  damsels  of  a 
certain  age,  willingly  forgave  him  this  sin,  and 
looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  best  young  men 
under  the  sun.  His  fine  figure,  his  fresh  unem- 
barrassed manner,  his  look,  his  laugh,  enabled 
him  to  gain  the  favorable  opinion  of  the  afore- 
said people,  who  would  have  forgiven  him,  had 
there  been  occasion,  any  one  of  the  deadly  sins. 
But  the  decision  of  such  judges  is  not  always  to 
be  trusted. 

While  both  old  and  young  at  Napoule  had 


tlbe  broken  flMtcber  95 

become  reconciled  to  the  innocent  Marietta, 
and  proffered  their  sympathies  to  her,  Colin 
was  the  only  one  who  had  no  pity  upon  the 
poor  child.  If  Marietta  was  talked  of,  he  be- 
came as  dumb  as  a  fish.  If  he  met  her  in  the 
street,  he  would  turn  red  and  white  with  anger, 
and  cast  sidelong  glances  at  her  of  the  most 
malicious  kind. 

If,  at  evening,  the  young  people  met  upon 
the  seashore  near  the  old  castle  ruins,  for 
sprightly  pastimes,  or  rural  dances,  or  to  sing 
catches,  Colin  was  the  merriest  among  them. 
But  as  soon  as  Marietta  arrived  the  rascally 
fellow  was  silent,  and  all  the  gold  in  the  world 
could  n't  make  him  sing.  What  a  pity,  when 
he  had  such  a  fine  voice  !  Everybody  listened 
to  it  so  willingly,  and  its  store  of  songs  was 
endless. 

All  the  maidens  looked  kindly  upon  Colin, 
and  he  was  friendly  with  all  of  them.  He  had, 
as  we  have  said,  a  roguish  glance,  which  the 
lasses  feared  and  loved;  and  it  was  so  sweet, 
they  would  like  to  have  had  it  painted.  But, 
as  might  naturally  be  expected,  the  offended 
Marietta  did  not  look  graciously  upon  him, 
and  in  that  she  was  perfectly  right.  Whether 
he  smiled  or  not  it  was  all  the  same  to  her.  As 
to  his  roguish  glance,  why  she  would  never 
hear  it  mentioned  ;  and  therein  too  she  was  per- 


96  £6Cbokfce's  tTales 

fectly  right.  "When  he  told  a  tale  (and  he  knew 
thousands),  and  everybody  listened,  she  nudged 
her  neighbor,  or  perhaps  threw  tufts  of  grass  at 
Peter  or  Paul,  and  laughed  and  chattered,  and 
did  not  listen  to  Colin  at  all.  This  behavior 
quite  provoked  the  proud  fellow,  so  that  he 
would  break  off  in  the  middle  of  his  story,  and 
stalk  sullenly  away. 

Revenge  is  sweet.  The  daughter  of  mother 
Manon  well  knew  how  to  triumph.  Yet  Mari- 
etta was  a  right  good  child  and  quite  too  tender- 
hearted. If  Colin  was  silent,  it  gave  her  pain. 
If  he  was  downcast,  she  laughed  no  more.  If 
he  went  away,  she  did  not  stay  long  behind  ; 
but  hurried  to  her  home,  and  wept  tears  of 
repentance,  more  beautiful  than  those  of  the 
Magdalen,  although  she  had  not  sinned  like 
the  Magdalen. 

THE  PITCHER. 

Father  Jerome  the  pastor  of  Napoule,  was 
an  old  man  of  seventy,  who  possessed  all  the 
virtues  of  a  saint,  and  only  one  failing ;  which 
was,  that  by  reason  of  his  advanced  years,  he 
was  hard  of  hearing.  But,  on  that  very  account, 
his  homilies  were  more  acceptable  to  the  chil- 
dren of  his  baptism  and  blessing.  True,  he 
preached  only  of  two  subjects,  as  if  they  com- 
prehended the  whole  of  religion.    It  was  either, 


the  $rofcen  flMtcbet  97 

''Little  children,  love  one  another,"  or  it  was, 
"Mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence."  And 
truly  there  is  so  much  Faith,  Love,  and  Hope  in 
these,  that  one  might  at  a  pinch  be  saved  by 
them.  The  little  children  loved  one  another 
most  obediently,  and  trusted  in  the  ways  of 
Providence.  Only  Colin,  with  his  flinty  heart, 
would  know  nothing  of  either ;  for  even  when 
he  professed  to  be  friendly,  he  entertained  the 
deepest  malice. 

The  Napoulese  went  to  the  annual  market  or 
fair  of  the  city  of  Vence.  It  was  truly  a  joyful 
time,  and  though  they  had  but  little  gold  to 
buy  with,  there  were  many  goods  to  look  at. 
Now  Marietta  and  mother  Manon  went  to  the 
Fair  with  the  rest,  and  Colin  was  also  there. 
He  bought  a  great  many  curiosities  and  trifles 
for  his  friends — but  he  would  not  spend  a 
farthing  for  Marietta.  And  yet  he  Was  always 
at  her  elbow,  though  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
nor  she  to  him.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was 
brooding  over  some  scheme  of  wickedness. 

Mother  Manon  stood  gazing  before  a  shop, 
when  she  suddenly  exclaimed  :  "Oh  !  Marietta, 
see  that  beautiful  pitcher!  A  queen  would  not 
be  ashamed  to  raise  it  to  her  lips.  Only  see ; 
the  edge  is  of  dazzling  gold,  and  the  flowers 
upon  it  could  not  bloom  more  beautifully  in 
the  garden,   although  they   are   only   painted. 


£scbofcfce's  Gales 


And  in  the  midst  of  this  Paradise  !  pray  see, 
Marietta,  how  the  apples  are  smiling  on  the 
trees.  They  are  verily  tempting.  And  Adam 
cannot  withstand  it,  as  the  enchanting  Eve 
offers  him  one  for  food  !  And  do  see,  how 
the  little  frisking  lamb  skips  around  the  old 
tiger,  and  the  snow-white  dove  with  its  golden 
throat  stands  there  before  the  vulture,  as  if  she 
would  caress  him  !  " 

Marietta  could  not  satisfy  herself  with  look- 
ing. "Had  I  such  a  pitcher,  mother  !  "  said  she, 
"  it  is  far  too  beautiful  to  drink  out  of;  I  would 
place  my  flowers  in  it  and  constantly  peep  into 
Paradise.  We  are  at  the  fair  in  Vence,  but  when 
I  look  on  the  pitcher  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  Para- 
dise. ' ' 

So  spoke  Marietta,  and  called  all  her  com- 
panions to  the  spot,  to  share  her  admiration  of 
the  pitcher  ;  but  the  young  men  soon  joined  the 
maidens,  until  at  length  almost  half  the  inhab- 
itants of  Napoule  were  assembled  before  the 
wonderfully  beautiful  pitcher.  But  miraculously 
beautiful  was  it  mainly  from  its  inestimable, 
translucent  porcelain,  with  gilded  handles  and 
glowing  colors.  They  asked  the  merchant  tim- 
idly :  "  Sir,  what  is  the  price  of  it  ?  "  And  he 
answered  :  "  Among  friends,  it  is  worth  a  hun- 
dred livres."  Then  they  all  became  silent,  and 
went  away  in  despair.     When   the  Napoulese 


Zhc  broken  flMtcber  99 

were  all  gone  from  the  front  of  the  shop,  Colin 
came  there  by  stealth,  threw  the  merchant  a 
hundred  livres  upon  the  counter,  had  the  pitcher 
put  in  a  box  well  packed  with  cotton,  and  then 
carried  it  off.  What  evil  plans  he  had  in  view 
no  one  would  have  surmised. 

Near  Napoule,  on  his  way  home,  it  being 
already  dusk,  he  met  old  Jacques,  the  Justice's 
servant,  returning  from  the  fields.  Jacques  was 
a  very  good  man,  but  excessively  stupid. 

"  I  will  give  thee  money  enough  to  get  some- 
thing to  drink,  Jacques,"  said  Colin,  "  if  thou 
wilt  bear  this  box  to  Manon's  house,  and  leave 
it  there  ;  and  if  any  one  should  see  thee,  and 
inquire  from  whom  the  box  came,  say,  'A 
stranger  gave  it  to  me.'  But  never  disclose  my 
name,  or  I  will  always  detest  thee." 

Jacques  promised  this,  took  the  drink-money, 
and  the  box,  and  went  with  it  towards  the  little 
dwelling,  between  the  olive  trees  and  the 
African  acacias. 

THE  CARRIER. 

BEFORE  he  arrived  there,  he  encountered  his 
master,  Justice  Hautmartin,  who  asked  :  "Jac- 
ques, what  art  thou  carrying?  " 

"  A  box  for  mother  Manon.  But,  sir,  I  can- 
not say  from  whom  it  comes. ' ' 


ioo  Xschokke's  STales 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  Mr.  Colin  would  always  detest 
me." 

"It  is  well  that  thou  canst  keep  a  secret. 
But  it  is  already  late  ;  give  me  the  box,  for  lam 
going  to-morrow  to  see  Mrs.  Manon  ;  I  will  de- 
liver it  to  her,  and  not  betray  that  it  came  from 
Colin.  It  will  save  thee  a  walk,  and  furnish 
me  a  good  excuse  for  calling  on  the  old  lady." 

Jacques  gave  the  box  to  his  master,  whom  he 
was  accustomed  to  obey  explicitly  in  all  things. 
The  Justice  bore  it  into  his  chamber,  and  ex- 
amined it  by  the  light  with  some  curiosity.  On 
the  lid  was  neatly  written  with  red  chalk  :  "  For 
the  lovely  and  dear  Marietta."  But  Herr  Haut- 
niartin  well  knew  that  this  was  some  of  Colin's 
mischief,  and  that  some  knavish  trick  lurked 
under  the  whole.  He  therefore  opened  the  box 
carefully,  for  fear  that  a  mouse  or  rat  should  be 
concealed  within.  When  he  beheld  the  won- 
drous pitcher,  which  he  had  seen  at  Vence,  he 
was  dreadfully  shocked,  for  Herr  Hautmartin 
was  a  skilful  casuist,  and  knew  that  the  inven- 
tions and  devices  of  the  human  heart  are  evil 
from  our  youth  upward.  He  saw  at  once,  that 
Colin  designed  this  pitcher  as  a  means  of  bring- 
ing misfortune  upon  Marietta  :  perhaps  to  give 
out,  when  it  should  be  in  her  possession,  that  it 
was  the  present  of  some  successful  lover  in  the 


Gbe  JBrofcen  ftttcber 


town,  or  the  like,  so  that  all  decent  people 
would  thereafter  keep  aloof  from  Marietta. 
Therefore  Herr  Hautmartin  resolved,  in  order 
to  prevent  any  evil  reports,  to  profess  himself 
the  giver.  Moreover,  he  loved  Marietta,  and 
would  gladly  have  seen  her  observe  more 
strictly  towards  himself  the  sayings  of  the  gray- 
headed  priest  Jerome,  "Little  children,  love 
one  another."  In  truth,  Herr  Hautmartin  was 
a  little  child  of  fifty  years  old,  and  Marietta 
did  not  think  the  saying  applied  particularly  to 
him.  Mother  Manon,  on  the  contrary,  thought 
that  the  Justice  was  a  clever  little  child  ;  he  had 
gold  and  a  high  reputation,  from  one  end  of 
Napoule  to  the  other.  And  when  the  Justice 
spoke  of  marriage,  and  Marietta  ran  away  in 
affright,  mother  Manon  remained  sitting,  and 
had  no  fear  for  the  tall,  staid  gentleman.  It 
must  also  be  confessed,  that  there  were  no 
faults  in  his  person.  And  although  Colin 
might  be  the  handsomest  man  in  the  village, 
yet  the  Justice  far  surpassed  him  in  two  things, 
namely  :  in  the  number  of  years,  and  in  a  very, 
very  big  nose.  Yes,  this  nose,  which  always 
went  before  the  Justice  like  a  herald,  to  pro- 
claim his  approach,  was  a  real  elephant  among 
human  noses. 

With  this  proboscis,  his  good  purpose,  and 
the  pitcher,   the  Justice  went    the   following 


^scbofcfce's  Gales 


morning  to  the  house  between  the  olive  trees 
and  the  African  acacias. 

"For  the  beautiful  Marietta,"  said  he,  "I 
hold  nothing  too  costly.  Yesterday  you  ad- 
mired the  pitcher  at  Vence  :  to-day,  allow  me, 
lovely  Marietta,  to  lay  it  and  my  devoted  heart 
at  your  feet." 

Manon  and  Marietta  were  transported  beyond 
measure  when  they  beheld  the  pitcher.  Ma- 
non's  eyes  glistened  with  delight ;  but  Marietta 
turned  and  said  :  "I  can  neither  take  your 
heart  nor  your  pitcher." 

Then  mother  Manon  was  angry,  and  cried 
out  :  "  But  I  accept  both  heart  and  pitcher. 
Oh,  thou  little  fool,  how  long  wilt  thou  despise 
thy  good  fortune  !  For  whom  dost  thou  tarry  ? 
Will  a  count  of  Provence  make  thee  his  bride, 
that  thou  scornst  the  Justice  of  Napoule  ?  I 
know  better  how  to  look  after  thy  interests. 
Herr  Hautmartin,  I  deem  it  an  honor  to  call 
you  my  son-in-law." 

Then  Marietta  went  out  and  wept  bitterly, 
and  hated  the  beautiful  pitcher  with  all  her 
heart. 

But  the  Justice,  drawing  the  palm  of  his 
flabby  hand  over  his  nose,  spoke  thus  ju- 
diciously : 

"Mother  Manon,  hurry  nothing.  The  dove 
will  at  length,  when  it  learns  to  know  me  bet- 


Zhc  broken  flMtcber  103 

ter,  give  way.  I  am  not  impetuous.  I  have 
some  skill  among  women,  and  before  a  quarter 
of  a  year  passes  by,  I  will  insinuate  myself  into 
Marietta's  good  graces." 

"Thy  nose  is  too  large  for  that,"  whispered 
Marietta,  who  listened  outside  the  door  and 
laughed  to  herself.  In  fact,  the  quarter  of  the 
year  passed  by,  and  Herr  Hautmartin  had  not 
yet  pierced  her  heart  even  with  the  tip  of  his 
nose. 

THK   FLOWERS. 

During  this  quarter  of  a  year  Marietta  had 
other  affairs  to  attend  to.  The  pitcher  gave  her 
much  vexation  and  trouble,  and  something  else 
besides. 

For  a  fortnight  nothing  else  was  talked  of  in 
Napoule,  and  every  one  said,  it  is  a  present  from 
the  Justice,  and  the  marriage  is  already  agreed 
upon.  Marietta  solemnly  declared  to  all  her 
companions,  that  she  would  rather  plunge  to 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  than  marry  the  Justice, 
but  the  maidens  continued  to  banter  her  all  the 
more,  saying  :  "  Oh,  how  blissful  it  must  be  to 
repose  in  the  shadow  of  his  nose  !  "  This  was 
her  first  vexation. 

Then  mother  Manon  had  the  cruelty  to  force 
Marietta  to  rinse  out  the  pitcher  every  morning 
at  the  spring  under  the  rock  and  to  fill  it  with 


104  £scbokfce's  Gales 

fresh  flowers.  She  hoped  by  this  to  accustom 
Marietta  to  the  pitcher  and  heart  of  the  giver. 
But  Marietta  continued  to  hate  both  the  gift 
and  the  giver,  and  her  work  at  the  spring  be- 
came an  actual  punishment.     Second  vexation. 

Then,  when  in  the  morning,  she  came  to  the 
spring,  twice  every  week  she  found  on  the  rock, 
immediately  over  it,  some  most  beautiful 
flowers,  handsomely  arranged,  all  ready  for  the 
decoration  of  the  pitcher.  And  on  the  flower 
stalks  a  strip  of  paper  was  always  tied,  on  which 
was  written,  Dear  Marietta.  Now  no  one 
need  expect  to  impose  upon  little  Marietta,  as 
if  magicians  and  fairies  were  still  in  the  world. 
Consequently,  she  knew  that  both  the  flowers 
and  papers  must  have  come  from  Herr  Haut- 
martin.  Marietta,  indeed,  would  not  smell 
them,  because  the  living  breath  from  out  the 
Justice's  nose  had  perfumed  them.  Neverthe- 
less, she  took  the  flowers,  because  they  were 
finer  than  wild  flowers,  and  tore  the  slip  of 
paper  into  a  thousand  pieces,  which  she  strewed 
upon  the  spot  where  the  flowers  usually  lay. 
But  this  did  not  vex  Justice  Hautmartin,  whose 
love  wTas  unparalleled  in  its  kind,  as  his  nose 
was  in  its  kind.     Third  vexation. 

At  length  it  came  out  in  conversation  with 
Herr  Hautmartin,  that  he  was  not  the  giver  of 
the  beautiful  flowers.     Then,  who  could  it  be? 


Gbe  broken  flMtcbet  105 

Marietta  was  utterly  astounded  at  the  unex- 
pected discovery.  Thenceforth  she  took  the 
flowers  from  the  rock  more  kindly  ;  but  further, 
Marietta  was, — what  maidens  are  not  wont  to 
be, — very  inquisitive.  She  conjectured  first 
this  and  then  that  young  man  in  Napoule. 
Yet  her  conjectures  were  in  vain.  She  looked 
and  listened  far  into  the  night ;  she  rose  earlier 
than  usual.  But  she  looked  and  listened  in 
vain.  And  still  twice  a  week  in  the  morning 
the  miraculous  flowers  lay  upon  the  rock,  and 
upon  the  strip  of  paper  wound  round  them 
she  always  read  the  silent  sigh,  Dear  Marietta! 
Such  an  incident  would  have  made  even  the 
most  indifferent  inquisitive.  But  curiosity  at 
length  became  a  burning  pain.  Fourth  vexation. 

WICKEDNESS  UPON  WICKEDNESS 

Now  Father  Jerome,  on  Sunday,  had  again 
preached  from  the  text  :-  "  Mysterious  are  the 
dispensations  of  Providence. ' '  And  little  Mari- 
etta thought,  if  Providence  would  only  dispense 
that  I  might  at  length  find  out  who  is  the  flower 
dispenser.     Father  Jerome  was  never  wrong. 

On  a  summer  night,  when  it  was  far  too  warm 
for  rest,  Marietta  awoke  very  early,  and  could 
not  resume  her  sleep.  Therefore  she  sprang 
joyously  from  her  couch  as  the  first  streaks  of 


io6  ^scbokfce's  Cales 


dawn  flashed  against  the  window  of  her  little 
chamber,  over  the  waves  of  the  sea  and  the 
Lerinian  Isles,  dressed  herself,  and  went  out  to 
wash  her  forehead,  breast,  and  arms  in  the  cool 
spring.  She  took  her  hat  with  her,  intending 
to  take  a  walk  by  the  seashore,  as  she  knew  of 
a  retired  place  for  bathing. 

In  order  to  reach  this  retired  spot,  it  was 
necessary  to  pass  over  the  rocks  behind  the 
house,  and  thence  down  through  the  orange 
and  palm  trees.  On  this  occasion  Marietta 
could  not  pass  through  them ;  for,  under  the 
youngest  and  most  slender  of  the  palms,  lay  a 
tall  young  man,  in  profound  sleep — near  him  a 
nosegay  of  most  splendid  flowers.  A  white 
paper  lay  thereon,  from  which,  probably,  a 
sigh  was  again  breathing.  How  could  Marietta 
get  by  there  ? 

She  stood  still,  trembling  with  fright.  She 
would  go  home  again.  Hardly  had  she  retreat- 
ed a  couple  of  steps,  ere  she  looked  again  at  the 
sleeper,  and  remained  motionless.  Yet  the  dis- 
tance prevented  her  from  recognizing  his  face. 
Now  the  mystery  was  to  be  solved,  or  never. 
She  tripped  lightly  nearer  to  the  palms — but  he 
seemed  to  stir — then  she  ran  again  towards  the 
cottage.  His  movements  were  but  the  fearful 
imaginings  of  Marietta — now  she  returned  again 
on  her  way  towards  the  palms — but  his  sleep 


Gbe  ^Broken  flMtcber  107 

m_ 

might  perhaps  be  only  dissembled — swiftly  she 
ran  towards  the  cottage — but  who  would  flee 
for  a  mere  probability  ?  She  trod  more  boldly 
the  path  towards  the  palms. 

With  these  fluctuations  of  her  timid  and  joy- 
ous spirit,  between  fright  and  curiosity,  with 
these  to  and  fro  trippings  between  the  house 
and  the  palmtrees,  she  at  length  nearly  ap- 
proached the  sleeper  ;  at  the  same  time  curiosity 
became  more  powerful  than  fear. 

"What  is  he  to  me?  M»y  way  leads  me 
directly  past  him.  Whether  he  sleeps  or  wake, 
I  will  go  straight  on."  So  thought  Manon's 
daughter.  But  she  passed  not  by,  but  stood 
looking  directly  in  the  face  of  the  flower-giver, 
in  order  to  be  certain  who  it  was.  Besides,  he 
slept  as  if  it  were  the  first  time  in  a  month. 
And  who  was  it  ?  Now,  who  else  should  it  be, 
but  the  arch,  wicked  Colin  ? 

So  it  was  he  who  had  annoyed  the  gentle 
maiden,  and  given  her  so  much  trouble  with 
Herr  Hautmartin,  because  he  bore  a  grudge 
against  her  ;  he  had  been  the  one  who  had 
teased  her  with  flowers,  in  order  to  torture  her 
curiosity.  Wherefore?  He  hated  Marietta. 
He  behaved  himself  always  most  shamefully 
towards  the  poor  child.  He  avoided  her  when 
he  could ;  and  when  he  could  not,  he  grieved 
the    good-natured    little    one.      With    all  the 


108  %schok\\e's  £ales 

other  maidens  of  Napoule  he  was  more  chatty, 
friendly,  courteous,  than  towards  Marietta. 
Consider — he  had  never  once  asked  her  to 
dance,  and  yet  she  danced  bewitchingly. 

Now  there  he  lay,  surprised,  taken  in  the 
act.  Revenge  swelled  in  Marietta's  bosom. 
What  disgrace  could  she  subject  him  to  ?  She 
took  the  nosegay,  unloosed  it,  strewed  his  pres- 
ent over  the  sleeper  in  scorn.  But  the  paper, 
on  which  again  appeared  the  sigh,  "  Dear 
Marietta,"  she  retained,  and  thrust  quickly  into 
her  bosom.  She  wished  to  preserve  this  proof 
of  his  handwriting.  Marietta  was  sly.  Now 
she  would  go  away.  But  her  revenge  was  not 
yet  satisfied.  She  could  not  leave  the  place 
without  returning  Colin's  ill-will.  She  took 
the  violet-colored  silken  ribbon  from  her  hat, 
and  threw  it  lightly  around  the  sleeper's  arm 
and  around  the  tree,  and  with  three  knots  tied 
Colin  fast.  Now  when  he  awoke,  how  aston- 
ished he  would  be  !  How  his  curiosity  would 
torment  him  to  ascertain  who  had  played  him 
this  trick  !  That  he  could  not  possibly  dis- 
cover. So  much  the  better ;  it  served  him 
right. 

Marietta  had  only  been  too  lenient  towards 
him.  She  seemed  to  regret  her  work  when  she 
had  finished  it.  Her  bosom  throbbed  impetu- 
ously.    Indeed,  I  believe  that  a  little  tear  filled 


tlbe  JBrofcen  fMtcber  ioq 

her  eye,  as  she  compassionately  gazed  upon  the 
guilty  one.  Slowly  she  retreated  to  the  orange 
grove  by  the  rocks — she  looked  around  often — 
slowly  ascended  the  rocks,  looking  down 
among  the  palm  trees  as  she  ascended.  Then 
she  hastened  to  mother  Manon,  who  was  call- 
ing her. 

THE  HAT   BAND. 

That  very  day  Colin  practised  new  mischief. 
What  did  he?  He  wished  to  shame  the  poor 
Marietta  publicly.  Ah  !  she  never  thought 
that  every  one  in  Napoule  knew  her  violet- 
colored  ribbon  !  Colin  remembered  it  but  too 
well.  Proudly  he  bound  it  around  his  hat,  and 
exhibited  it  to  the  gaze  of  all  the  world  as  a 
conquest.  And  male  and  female  cried  out : 
"  He  has  received  it  from  Marietta  !  "  And  all 
the  maidens  said  angrily:  "The  reprobate!" 
And  all  the  young  men  who  liked  to  see 
Marietta,  cried  out:   "The  reprobate!" 

"How!  mother  Manon?"  shrieked  the 
Justice  Hautmartin,  when  he  came  to  her 
house,  and  he  shrieked  so  loudly,  that  it  re- 
echoed wonderfully  through  his  nose.  "  How ! 
do  you  suffer  this  ?  my  betrothed  presents  the 
young  proprietor  Colin  with  her  hat  band  !  It 
is  high  time  that  "we  celebrate  our  nuptials. 
When  that  is  over,  then  I  have  a  right  to 
speak." 


"You  have  a  right!"  answered  mother 
Manon  ;  "if  things  are  so,  the  marriage  must 
take  place  forthwith.  When  that  is  done,  all 
will  go  right." 

"  But,  mother  Manon,  Marietta  always  refuses 
to  give  me  her  consent." 

"  Prepare  the  marriage  feast." 

"But  she  will  not  even  look  kindly  at  me  ; 
and  when  I  seat  myself  at  her  side,  the  little 
savage  jumps  up  and  runs  away." 

"Justice,  only  prepare  the  marriage  feast." 

"But  if  Marietta  resists " 

"  We  will  take  her  by  surprise.  We  will  go 
to  Father  Jerome  on  Monday  morning  earljT, 
and  he  shall  quietly  celebrate  the  marriage. 
This  we  can  easily  accomplish  with  him.  I  am 
her  mother.  You  the  first  Judicial  person 
in  Napoule.  He  must  obey.  Marietta  need 
know  nothing  about  it.  Early  on  Monday 
morning  I  will  send  her  to  Father  Jerome  all 
alone,  with  a  message,  so  that  she  will  suspect 
nothing.  Then  the  Priest  shall  speak  earnestly 
to  her.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  we  two  will 
come.  Then  swiftly  to  the  altar.  And  even  if 
Marietta  should  then  say  no,  what  consequence 
is  it  ?  The  old  Priest  can  hear  nothing.  But 
till  then,  mum  to  Marietta  and  all  Napoule." 

So  the  secret  remained  with  the  two.  Mari- 
etta dreamed  not  of  the  good-luck  which  was  in 


XLbc  broken  flMtcber  m 

store  for  her.  She  thought  only  of  Colin 's 
wickedness,  which  had  made  her  the  common 
talk  of  the  whole  place.  Oh !  how  she  repented 
her  heedlessness  about  the  ribbon  ;  and  yet  in 
her  heart  she  forgave  the  reprobate  his  crime. 
Marietta  was  far  too  good.  She  told  her  mother, 
she  told  all  her  playmates:  "Colin  has  found 
my  lost  hat-band.  I  never  gave  it  to  him. 
He  only  wishes  to  vex  me  with  it.  You  all 
know  that  Colin  was  always  ill-disposed  tow- 
ards me,  and  always  sought  to  mortify  me  !  " 
Ah !  the  poor  child  !  she  knew  not  what  new 
abomination  the  malicious  fellow  was  again 
contriving. 

THE  BROKEN  PITCHER. 

Earey  in  the  morning  Marietta  went  to  the 
spring  with  the  pitcher.  There  were  no  flowers 
yet  on  the  rock.  It  was  still  quite  too  early ; 
for  the  sun  had  scarcely  risen  from  the  sea. 

Footsteps  were  heard.  Colin  came  in  sight, 
the  flowers  in  his  hand.  Marietta  became  very 
red.  Colin  stammered  out:  "good  morning, 
Marietta,"  but  the  greeting  came  not  from  his 
heart ;  he  could  hardly  bring  it  over  his  lips. 

"  Why  dost  thou  wear  my  ribbon  so  publicly, 
Colin?"  said  Marietta,  and  placed  the  pitcher 
upon  the  rock.     "  I  did  not  give  it  thee." 

"Thou  didst  not  give  it  to  me,   dear  Mari- 


n2  %6chokkefs  TTates 

etta?"  asked  he,  and  inward  rage  made  him 
deadly  pale. 

Marietta  was  ashamed  of  the  falsehood, 
drooped  her  eyelids,  and  said,  after  a  while  : 
"  Well,  I  did  give  it  to  thee,  yet  thou  shouldst 
not  have  worn  it  so  openly.  Give  it  me  back 
again." 

Slowly  he  untied  it ;  his  anger  was  so  great 
that  he  could  not  prevent  the  tears  from  filling 
his  eyes,  nor  the  sighs  from  escaping  his  breast. 
"Dear  Marietta,  leave  thy  ribbon  with  me," 
said  he  softly. 

"  No,"  answered  she. 

Then  his  suppressed  passion  changed  into 
desperation.  Sighing,  he  looked  towards  Heav- 
en, then  sadly  on  Marietta,  who,  silent  and 
abashed,  stood  by  the  spring  with  downcast 
eyes. 

He  wound  the  violet-colored  ribbon  around 
the  stalks  of  the  flowers,  said,  "There,  take 
them  all,"  and  threw  the  flowers  so  spitefully 
against  the  magnificent  pitcher  upon  the  rock, 
that  it  was  thrown  down  and  dashed  to  pieces. 
Maliciously  he  fled  away. 

Mother  Manon,  lurking  behind  the  window, 
had  seen  and  heard  all.  When  the  pitcher 
broke,  hearing  and  sight  left  her.  She  was 
scarcely  able  to  speak  for  very  horror.  And  as 
she   pushed  with  all  her  strength  against  the 


Gbe  broken  flMtcber  113 

narrow  window,  to  shout  after  the  guilty  one, 
it  gave  way,  and  with  one  crash  fell  to  the  earth 
and  was  shattered  in  pieces. 

So  much  ill-luck  would  have  discomposed 
any  other  woman.  But  Manon  soon  recovered 
herself.  "How  lucky  that  I  was  a  witness  to 
this  roguery!"  exclaimed  she;  "he  must  to 
the  Justice.  He  shall  replace  both  pitcher  and 
window-sash  with  his  gold.  It  will  give  a  rich 
dowry  to  Marietta. "  But  when  Marietta  brought 
in  the  fragments  of  the  shattered  pitcher,  when 
Manon  saw  the  Paradise  lost,  the  good  man 
Adam  without  a  head,  and  of  Eve  not  a  solitary 
limb  remaining,  the  serpent  unhurt,  triumph- 
ing, the  tiger  safe,  but  the  little  lamb  gone  even 
to  the  very  tail,  as  if  the  tiger  had  swallowed 
it,  then  mother  Manon  screamed  forth  curses 
against  Colin,  and  said  :  "  One  can  easily  see 
that  this/all  came  from  the  hand  of  the  Devil." 

THE  TRIBUNAL. 

She  took  the  pitcher  in  one  hand,  Marrietta 
in  the  other,  and  went  about  nine  o'clock  to 
where  Herr  Hautmartin  was  wont  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment. She  there  made  a  great  outcry,  and 
showed  the  broken  pitcher  and  the  Paradise 
lost.     Marietta  wept  bitterly. 

The  Justice,  when  he  saw  the  broken  pitcher, 


H4  ^scbofcfce's  tTales 

and  his  beautiful  bride  in  tears,  flew  into  so 
violent  a  rage  towards  Colin  that  his  nose  was 
as  violet-colored  as  Marietta's  well-known  hat- 
band. He  immediately  despatched  his  bailiffs 
to  bring  the  criminal  before  him. 

Colin  came  overwhelmed  with  grief.  Mother 
Manon  now  repeated  her  complaint  with  great 
eloquence,  before  justice,  bailiffs,  and  scribes. 
But  Colin  listened  not.  He  stepped  to  Mari- 
etta and  whispered  to  her:  "  Forgive  me,  dear 
Marietta,  as  I  forgive  thee.  I  broke  thy  pitcher 
unintentionally  ;  but  thou,  thou  hast  broken  my 
heart!" 

"What  whispering  is  that?"  cried  Herr 
Hautmartin,  with  magisterial  authority. 
"Hearken  to  this  accusation,  and  defend  your- 
self." "I  have  nought  to  defend.  I  broke  the 
pitcher  against  my  will,"  said  Colin. 

"That  I  verily  believe,"  said  Marietta,  sob- 
bing, "  I  am  as  guilty  as  he  ;  for  I  offended  and 
angered  him, — then  he  threw  the  ribbon  and 
flowers  to  me.     He  could  not  help  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  know !  "  cried  mother 
Manon.  "  Do  you  intend  to  defend  him  ?  Mr. 
Justice,  pronounce  his  sentence.  He  has 
broken  the  pitcher,  and  he  does  not  deny  it ; 
and  I,  on  his  account,  the  window — will  he  deny 
that?    Let  us  see." 

"Since  you  cannot  deny  it,  Mr.  Colin,"  said 


tTbe  broken  flMtcber  115 

the  Justice,  "you  must  pay  three  hundred  livres 
for  the  pitcher,  for  it  is  worth  that ;  and  then 
for " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Colin,  "it  is  not  worth  so 
much.  I  bought  it  at  Vence  at  the  Fair,  for 
Marietta,  for  one  hundred  livres." 

"You  bought  it,  sir  brazen  face?"  shrieked 
the  Justice,  and  his  whole  face  became  like 
Marietta's  hat-band.  He  could  not  or  would 
not  say  more,  for  he  dreaded  a  disagreeable 
investigation  of  the  matter. 

But  Colin  was  vexed  at  the  imputation,  and 
said  :  "  I  sent  this  pitcher  on  the  evening  of  the 
Fair,  by  your  own  servant,  to  Marietta.  There 
stands  Jacques  in  the  door.  He  is  a  witness. 
Speak,  Jacques,  did  I  not  give  thee  the  box  to 
carry  to  Mrs.  Man  on  ?  " 

Herr  Hautmartin  wished  to  interrupt  this 
conversation  by  speaking  loudly.  But  the 
simple  Jacques  said  :  "  Only  recollect,  Herr 
Justice,  you  took  away  Colin's  box  from  me, 
and  carried  what  was  in  it  to  Frau  Manon. 
The  box  lies  even  now,  there  under  the  papers." 

Then  the  bailiffs  were  ordered  to  remove  the 
simpleton  ;  and  Colin  was  also  directed  to  retire, 
until  he  should  be  sent  for  again. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Justice,"  interposed  Colin, 
"  but  this  business  shall  be  your  last  in  Napoule. 
I  know  this,  that  you  would  ingratiate  yourself 


n6  Xscbokke's  ^Tales 

with  Frau  Manon  and  Marietta  by  means  of 
my  property.  When  you  want  me  you  will 
have  to  ride  to  Grasse  to  the  Governor's. ' '  With 
that,  Colin  departed. 

Herr  Hautmartin  was  quite  puzzled  with  this 
affair,  and  in  his  confusion  knew  not  what  he 
was  about.  Mrs.  Manon  shook  her  head.  The 
affair  was  dark  and  mysterious  to  her.  "  Who 
will  now  pay  me  for  the  broken  pitcher?  "  she 
asked. 

"To  me,"  said  Marietta,  with  glowing, 
brightened  countenance,  " to  me  it  is  already 
paid  for." 

MYSTERIOUS   DISPENSATIONS. 

Coein  rode  that  same  day  to  the  Governor, 
at  Grasse,  and  came  back  early  the  next  morn- 
ing. But  Mr.  Hautmartin  only  laughed  at  him, 
and  removed  all  Mother  Manon's  suspicions, 
by  swearing  he  would  let  his  nose  be  cut  off  if 
Colin  did  not  pay  three  hundred  livres  for  the 
broken  pitcher.  He  also  went  with  mother 
Manon  to  talk  with  Father  Jerome  about  the 
marriage,  and  impressed  upon  him  the  necessity 
of  earnestly  setting  before  Marietta  her  duty,  as 
an  obedient  daughter,  of  not  opposing  the  will 
of  her  mother  in  her  marriage.  This  the  pious 
old  man  promised,  although  he  understood  not 
the  half  of  what  they  shouted  in  his  ear. 


Zhe  ^Broken  fcitcber  117 

Marietta  took  the  broken  pitcher  into  her 
bed-chamber,  and  now  truly  loved  it ;  and  it 
was  as  if  Paradise  were  planted  in  her  bosom, 
since  it  had  been  destroyed  on  the  pitcher. 

When  Monday  morning  came,  mother  Manon 
said  to  her  daughter:  "Dress  yourself  hand- 
somely, and  carry  this  myrtle  wreath  to  Father 
Jerome;  he  wants  it  for  a  bride."  Marietta 
dressed  herself  in  her  Sunday  clothes,  took  the 
myrtle  wreath  unsuspiciously,  and  carried  it  to 
Father  Jerome. 

On  the  way  Colin  met  her,  and  greeted  her 
joyfully,  though  timidly  ;  and  when  she  told 
him  where  she  was  taking  the  wreath,  Colin 
said  :  "  I  am  going  the  same  way,  for  I  am  car- 
rying the  money  for  the  Church's  tenths  to  the 
Priest."  And  as  they  went  on,  he  took  her 
hand  silently,  and  both  trembled,  as  if  they 
designed  some  great  crime  against  each  other. 

"Hast  thou  forgiven  me?"  whispered  Colin, 
anxiously.  "Ah!  Marietta,  what  have  I  done 
to  thee,  that  thou  art  so  cruel  towards  me  ?  " 

She  could  only  say:  "Be  quiet,  Colin,  you 
shall  have  the  ribbon  again  ;  and  I  will  preserve 
the  pitcher,  since  it  came  from  you  !  Did  it 
really  come  from  you  ?  ' ' 

"Ah!  Marietta,  canst  thou  doubt  it?  All  I 
have  I  would  gladly  give  thee.  Wilt  thou,  here- 
after, be  as  kind  to  me  as  thou  art  to  others  ? " 


n8  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

She  replied  not.  But  as  she  entered  the  par- 
sonage, she  looked  aside  at  him,  and  when  she 
saw  his  fine  eyes  filled  with  tears,  she  whispered 
softly  :  "Dear  Colin!"  Then  he  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  hand.  With  this,  the  door  of  a 
chamber  opened,  and  Father  Jerome,  with  ven- 
erable aspect,  stood  before  them.  The  young 
couple  had  nearly  fallen  from  giddiness,  and 
they  held  fast  to  each  other.  I  know  not 
whether  this  was  the  effect  of  the  hand-kissing, 
or  the  awe  they  felt  for  the  sage. 

Marietta  handed  him  the  myrtle  wreath.  He 
laid  it  upon  her  head  and  said:  "Little  chil- 
dren, love  one  another,"  and  then  urged  the 
good  maiden,  in  the  most  touching  and  pathetic 
manner,  to  love  Colin.  For  the  old  gentleman, 
from  his  hardness  of  hearing,  had  either  mis- 
taken the  name  of  the  bridegroom,  or  from 
want  of  memory,  forgotten  it  and  thought 
Colin  must  be  the  bridegroom. 

Then  Marietta's  heart  softened  under  the 
exhortation  of  the  venerable  Father,  and  with 
tears  and  sobs  she  exclaimed:  "Ah!  I  have 
loved  him  for  a  long  time,  but  he  hates  me  !  " 

"I  hate  thee,  Marietta?"  cried  Colin,  "my 
soul  has  lived  only  in  thee,  since  thou  earnest 
to  Napoule.  Oh  !  Marietta,  how  could  I  hope 
and  believe  that  thou  didst  love  me  ?  Does  not 
all  Napoule  worship  thee?  " 


Zbc  JBrofeen  flMtcber  119 

"Why,  then,  dost  thou  avoid  me,  Colin,  and 
prefer  all  my  companions  before  me?  " 

"Oh!  Marietta,  I  feared  and  trembled  with 
love  and  anxiety  when  I  beheld  thee  ;  I  had  not 
the  courage  to  approach  thee  ;  and  when  I  was 
away  from  thee,  I  was  most  miserable." 

As  they  talked  thus  with  each  other,  the  good 
Father  thought  they  were  quarrelling  ;  and  he 
threw  his  arms  around  them,  brought  them 
together,  and  said,  imploringly:  "Little  chil- 
dren, little  children,  love  one  another." 

Then  Marietta  sank  on  Colin 's  breast,  and 
Colin  threw  his  arms  around  her,  and  both  faces 
beamed  with  rapture.  They  forgot  the  priest, 
the  whole  world.  Colin 's  lips  hung  upon  Mari- 
etta's sweet  mouth.  It  was,  indeed,  only  a 
kiss,  but  a  kiss  of  sweetest  self-forgetfulness. 
Each  was  sunk  into  the  other.  Both  had  so 
completely  lost  their  recollection  that,  unwit- 
tingly, they  followed  the  delighted  Father  Je- 
rome into  the  church  and  before  the  altar. 

"  Marrietta  !  "  sighed  he. 

"  Colin  !  "  sighed  she. 

In  the  church  there  were  many  devout  wor- 
shippers ;  but  they  witnessed  Colin's  and  Mari- 
etta's marriage  with  amazement.  Many  ran 
out  before  the  close  of  the  ceremony,  to  spread 
the  news  in  ever}'  direction  throughout  Napoule : 
"  Colin  and  Marietta  are  married  !  " 


2'scbokfte's  £ales 


When  the  solemnization  was  over,  Father 
Jerome  honestly  rejoiced  that  he  had  succeeded 
so  well,  and  that  such  little  opposition  had  been 
made  by  the  parties.  He  led  them  into  the 
parsonage. 

END   OF  THIS  MEMORABLE  HISTORY. 

Then  mother  Manon  arrived,  breathless  ;  she 
had  waited  at  home  a  long  time  for  the  bride- 
groom. He  had  not  arrived.  At  the  last  stroke 
of  the  clock  she  grew  anxious,  and  went  to  Herr 
Hautmartin's.  There  a  new  surprise  awaited 
her.  She  learned  that  the  Governor,  together 
with  the  officers  of  the  Viguerie,  had  appeared, 
and  taken  possession  of  the  accounts,  chests, 
and  papers  of  the  Justice,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
arrested  Herr  Hautmartin. 

"This  surely  is  the  work  of  that  wicked 
Colin,"  thought  she,  and  hurried  to  the  parson- 
age, in  order  to  apologize  to  Father  Jerome  for 
delaying  the  marriage.  The  good  gray-headed 
old  man  advanced  towards  her,  proud  of  his 
work,  and  leading  by  the  hand  the  newly-mar- 
ried pair. 

Now  mother  Manon  lost  her  wits  and  her 
speech  in  good  earnest  when  she  learned  what 
had  happened.  But  Colin  had  more  thoughts 
and  powers  of  speech  than  in  his  whole  previ- 


Gbe  broken  pttcber  121 

ous  life.  He  told  of  his  love  and  the  broken 
pitcher,  the  falsehood  of  the  Justice,  and  how 
he  had  unmasked  this  unjust  magistrate  in  the 
Viguerie  at  Grasse.  Then  he  besought  mother 
Manon's  blessing,  since  all  this  had  happened 
without  any  fault  on  the  part  of  Marietta  or 
himself. 

Father  Jerome,  who,  for  a  long  while,  could 
not  make  out  what  had  happened,  when  he 
received  a  full  explanation  of  the  marriage 
through  mistake,  piously  folded  his  hands  and 
exclaimed,  with  uplifted  eyes  :  "  Wonderful 
are  the  dispensations  of  Providence  !  "  Colin 
and  Marietta  kissed  his  hands  ;  mother  Manon, 
through  sheer  veneration  of  Heaven,  gave  the 
young  couple  her  blessing,  but  remarked,  inci- 
dentally, that  her  head  seemed  turned  round. 

Frau  Manon  herself  was  pleased  with  her 
son-in-law  when  she  came  to  know  the  full 
extent  of  his  property,  and  especially  when  she 
found  that  Herr  Hautmartin  and  his  nose  had 
been  taken  as  prisoner  to  Grasse. 

"But  am  I  then  really  a  wife?  "  asked  Mari- 
etta, "  and  really  Colin's  wife  ?  " 

Mother  Manon  nodded  her  head,  and  Mari- 
etta hung  upon  Colin's  arm.  Thus  they  went 
to  Colin's  farm,  to  his  dwelling-house,  through 
the  garden. 

"  Iyook  at  the  flowers,  Marietta,"  said  Colin, 


%schokke'e  {Tales 


"  how  carefully  I  cultivated  them  for  your 
pitcher?  " 

Colin,  who  had  not  expected  so  pleasant  an 
event,  now  prepared  a  wedding  feast  on  the 
spur  of  the  occasion.  Two  days  was  it  con- 
tinued. All  Napoule  was  feasted.  Who  shall 
describe  Colin 's  rapture  and  extravagance. 

The  broken  pitcher  is  preserved  in  the  family 
to  the  present  day,  as  a  memorial  and  sacred 
relic. 


JONATHAN  FROCK 


JONATHAN  FROCK. 


IN  the  metropolis,  and  perhaps  in  the  whole 
kingdom,  no  man,  for  a  long  time,  had  been 
more  highly  esteemed  than  Herr  Von  Schwarz, 
the  first  judge  of  the  criminal  courts,  whose 
writings  had  even  gained  him  celebrity  in  for- 
eign countries.  Fortune  seemed  willing  to  ex- 
haust herself  in  showering  favors  upon  him. 
Though  the  son  of  a  poor  weaver,  his  talents 
had  procured  him  a  scholarship  by  which  he 
was  enabled  to  attend  the  high  school,  and 
afterward  to  study  the  profession  of  law.  Al- 
most without  a  farthing  he  came  to  the  metrop- 
olis to  earn  his  bread  as  an  attorney ;  immedi- 
ately undertook  a  difficult  lawsuit  that  had  been 
given  up  as  lost,  and  gained  the  cause,  which  so 
fixed  his  reputation  that  within  a  year  he  be- 
came one  of  the  busiest  and  most  popular  bar- 
risters of  the  city.  Appearing  everywhere  loaded 
with  honors,  rewards,  and  flattery,  he  was  intro- 
duced to  the  society  of  the  most  illustrious  men, 


i26  ^scbofcfce's  Zalcs 

and  in  the  best  houses  was  considered  an  intim- 
ate friend.  He  married  one  of  the  handsomest 
and  richest  young  girls  of  the  city,  was  taken 
into  the  employment  of  the  ministry,  and  ad- 
vanced from  office  to  office.  The  king  bestowed 
titles  and  orders  upon  him,  and  for  important 
services  he  had  rendered  he  received  a  foreign 
order,  to  which  a  large  income  was  attached  ;  it 
was  indeed  often  whispered  that  he  would  be 
made  minister  of  state.  In  short,  every  one  de- 
clared Herr  Von  Schwarz  to  be  the  happiest  of 
men.  He  possessed  the  most  brilliant  pros- 
pects, great  estates,  excellent  talents,  a  lovely 
wife,  and  beautiful  children  ;  and,  moreover,  all 
agreed  that  no  one  could  be  more  worthy  of  so 
much  good  fortune.  Herr  Von  Schwarz  was 
universally  looked  upon  as  a  tender  husband 
and  father,  an  unwearied  man  of  business,  a  true 
friend,  a  most  agreeable  companion,  and  the 
most  pleasing  of  men  in  conversation. 

We  must  not,  however,  allow  ourselves  to  be 
blinded  by  appearances.  Herr  Von  Schwarz 
was  in  fact  a  very  unhappy  man,  and  what  is 
more,  was  unworthy  of  happiness.  Doubtless 
his  address,  industry,  and  talents  were  sufficient 
to  make  him  respected,  but  not  the  qualities  of 
his  heart.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of  persons 
whom  we  can  call  nothing  more  than  prudent 
or  cunning  ;  strictly  just  in  affairs  of  business — 


3-onatban  jFrock  127 

in  some  cases  even  more  than  just ;  yet  gold, 
honor,  and  pleasure  were  the  secret  trinity  for 
which  he  labored  and  sacrificed  every  thing. 
He  was  too  liberal  to  have  either  conscience  or 
religion,  and  too  deeply  versed  in  human  nature 
ever  to  confide  with  the  feelings  of  friendship 
in  another  heart.  He  trusted  no  one,  because 
he  knew  himself,  and  looked  upon  those  who 
acted  differently  as  fools.  He  loved  himself 
from  instinct,  yet  if  he  had  seen  any  one  like 
himself  he  would  have  been  afraid  of  him.  In 
his  own  house,  moreover,  he  led  a  most  unhappy 
life.  There  he  was  the  tyrant ;  his  wife  he 
treated  with  contempt,  and  his  sons  (two  prom- 
ising boys)  trembled  like  slaves  in  his  presence  ; 
though  he  sometimes  treated  them  with  great 
kindness,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  about  their 
education,  having  more  important  matters  to  at- 
tend to.  No  one  knew  the  misery  of  his  house- 
hold but  those  who  belonged  to  it,  and  when  it 
was  rumored  by  gossiping  servants,  it  was 
either  disbelieved  or  thought  quite  excusable 
that  a  man  who  was  so  much  occupied  should 
at  times  be  out  of  temper. 

Others  threw  all  the  blame  upon  his  wife.  It 
was  decided  she  was  wanting  in  the  necessary 
cultivation  of  mind,  was  not  a  great  house- 
keeper, was  a  little  goose,  or  any  thing  they 
chose  to  say.     His  domestic  troubles  were  ob- 


128  £scbofcke's  Gates 

served  by  few  ;  for  if  any  one  visited  him  there 
appeared  but  one  heart  and  one  soul  pervading 
the  house, — he  the  most  attentive  of  husbands, 
the  kindest  of  fathers,  and  every  one  full  of  love 
and  cordiality  toward  him.  No  one  considered 
that  this  might  only  be  habitual  politeness. 
They  could  only  envy  his  happiness. 

For  two  years  there  had  been  in  the  family  of 
Herr  Von  Schwarz  a  young  man  by  the  name 
of  Jonathan  Frock  ;  he  played  the  part  of  a  tutor 
to  the  children,  but  was  as  much  a  slave  as  every 
one  else  in  the  Rath's  house.  Herr  Von  Schwarz 
possessed  a  peculiar  talent  (if  I  may  so  call  it)  for 
tormenting  everybody  in  the  best  possible  man- 
ner. After  telling  his  wife  that  she  was  not 
capable  of  being  a  good  wife,  and  had  neither 
wit  nor  understanding,  then  he  told  the  tutor 
that  he  was  an  awkward  fellow,  who  did  not 
know  how  to  behave  himself,  and  had  no  idea 
of  teaching  children.  In  fact,  Herr  Von  Schwarz 
assumed  the  tone  of  an  instructor  to  his  chil- 
dren's tutor,  and  oppressed  poor  Frock  dread- 
fully. 

Either  too  timid  or  too  good,  Frock  silently 
acquiesced  in  the  Rath's  weekly  assertion — that 
he  looked  upon  him  as  the  superintendent  of  his 
children,  and  not  as  their  instructor.  If  Frock 
ventured  to  say  a  word  in  his  own  defence,  he 


5-onatban  tfrock  129 

might  be  sure  that  Herr  Von  Schwarz  would 
shrug  his  shoulders  with  assumed  compassion, 
or  turn  his  back  upon  him  with  the  words : 
"All  labor  is  lost  upon  you." 

But  with  all  this  it  could  not  be  denied  that 
since  Frock  had  lived  in  the  house  Schwarz's 
children,  who  before  this  were  excessively  wild, 
had  improved  very  much.  They  had  learned 
obedience  and  respect  for  their  mother,  and 
now  turned  toward  her  with  love  and  esteem. 
They  appeared  better  bred,  more  desirous  of 
learning,  less  malicious  to  their  playfellows, 
and  clung  to  Herr  Frock  with  the  greatest  affec- 
tion. He  taught  them  reading,  writing,  arith- 
metic, German  history,  geography,  and  other 
things  that  Herr  Von  Schwarz  little  dreamed  of. 

Travelling  once  with  his  sons,  they  were 
obliged  to  sleep  in  the  same  room  at  an  inn, 
where,  to  his  astonishment,  he  saw  the  children, 
after  they  were  undressed,  kneel  down. 

"What  farce  is  this?  "  cried  he.  They  did 
not  answer,  but  folded  their  hands,  raised  their 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  prayed, — first  the  oldest 
boy,  half  aloud ;  then  he  was  silent,  and  the 
youngest  commenced.  What  they  said  was 
nothing  learned  by  heart,  for  it  related  to  the 
events  of  the  past  day ;  father  and  mother, 
Frock,  and  every  playfellow  were  remem- 
bered. 


is©  Zschokke'6  Gales 

Herr  Von  Schwarz  did  not  lose  a  word,  and 
the  whole  thing  appeared  ridiculous  to  him. 

"  I  believe,  upon  my  honor,"  said  he  to  Frock, 
when  he  returned,  "that  you  are  a  Moravian, 
an  d  teach  the  children  hypocrisy.  What  is  the 
use  of  the  boys  kneeling  down  in  their  shirts 
at  night  and  praying  ?  Children  cannot  under- 
stand religion,  and  I  wish  them  to  hear  nothing 
about  it  till  they  come  to  mature  years  ;  then 
they  can  judge  of  such  things  correctly,  and 
without  prejudice.  I  set  no  value  upon  a  taught 
religion.  Religion  must  unfold  itself  to  man 
from  his  internal  consciousness.  What  we  say 
to  children  on  such  subjects  is  beyond  their 
comprehension,  and  becomes  either  prejudice 
or  a  pernicious  habit  of  dissimulation,  from 
which  it  is  difficult  for  the  more  mature  judg- 
ment to  break  loose.     Are  you  a  Moravian  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  am  not,"  replied  Frock. 

"Of  what  religion  are  you  then? — Catholic, 
Lutheran,  or  Reformed?" 

Frock  again  colored,  and  was  silent  from 
timid  embarrassment. 

"  Speak,  for  I  must  and  will  know.  It  can- 
not be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  with  what 
opinions  my  children  first  become  acquainted  ; 
each  church  has  its  prejudices.  I  wish  you 
could  dance,  or  had  more  grace  and  external 
advantages,  for  in  this  age  these  would  be  of 


3-onatban  ffrocK  131 


more  use  to  my  sons  than  religious  prattling, 
which  children  neither  need  nor  understand." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  Herr  Rath,"  said 
Frock,  "I  think  the  need  is  felt  more  deeply 
by  children  than  you  may  perhaps  imagine. 
Among  all  the  things  an  innocent  and  inquisi- 
tive child  wishes  to  know,  he  certainly  asks 
with  most  interest  about  the  supernatural,  the 
origin  of  things,  the  destiny  of  the  soul  beyond 
the  grave,  and  about  God,  who  and  where  he  is. 
Such  questions  betoken  the  need  of  the  child 
and  the  spark  of  divinity  within.  The  first  ap- 
proach of  the  childish  heart  to  the  invisible 
world  gives  him  strength,  a  consciousness  of  the 
dignity  of  human  nature  and  a  love  of  virtue, 
without  which  man  ever  remains  an  amiable  but 
dangerous  creature." 

' '  Quite  right,  Herr  Frock,  only  after  your 
usual  fashion  you  set  out  on  a  wrong  proposi- 
tion. Pray,  who  made  you  believe  that  children 
are  filled  with  desire  for  the  invisible  and  spirit- 
ual, because  they  are  fond  of  asking  questions 
about  what  they  cannot  understand?  Do  you 
n-nl-  know  they  like  best  to  hear  of  ghosts,  rob- 
oers,  rairies,  jugglers,  and  every  thing  that  is 
wonderful  and  inexplicable  ?  Why  should  they 
not  ask  as  much  about  heaven  and  hell,  God 
and  angels  !  And  what  you  tell  them  on  these 
subjects,  be  it  true  or  not,   they  believe  the 


132  %8Chokkefs  Gates 

more  readily  the  more  extraordinary  it  is.  Ob- 
serve this,  dear  friend,  if,  notwithstanding  your 
overpowering  stock  of  imagination,  you  can 
still  discern  a  simple  truth,  that  the  more  igno- 
rant a  man  is  the  more  he  is  inclined  to  believe 
in  the  wonderful  and  supernatural." 

"  May  I  express  my  opinion,  Herr  Rath?" 
"  As  you  please  ;  I  am  prepared  to  hear  some- 
thing very  wise." 

"I  will  not  deny,  that  the  more  ignorant  a 
man  is,  the  more  he  is  inclined  to  believe  in  the 
wonderful  and  supernatural.  Whence,  however, 
this  inclination,  which  leads  him  from  the  lowest 
and  most  common  to  the  sublime  ?  This  impulse 
lies  deep  in  human  nature,  and  is  the  indisput- 
able work  of  his  Creator.  As  every  flame  of  light 
is  never  earthbound,  but  always  rises  toward 
heaven,  whence  streams  the  greatest  light ;  so 
every  soul  feels  the  consciousness  that,  more 
than  all  earthly  things,  it  may  aspire  to  the 
highest  spirituality.  In  the  ways  and  means 
of  improvement,  it  may  err,  but  still  its  desire 
for  what  is  most  elevated  and  imperishable,  is 
innate.  If  in  the  progress  of  years,  it  gains 
more  cultivation,  it  then  but  becomes  more 
artificial,  and  its  natural  condition  is  over- 
powered by  the  artificial.  Discovering,  at 
length,  that  it  has  erred  in  the  way  and  means, 
the  soul  becomes  mistrustful  of  the  spiritual 


Sonatban  tfrocfc  133 

impulse,  which  first  drew  it  to  a  belief  in  the 
eternal  and  sublime  ;  and  therefore,  conceiving 
it  great  wisdom  to  repose  entirely  upon  its 
reasoning  powers,  it  accustoms  itself  to  explain 
every  thing  by  natural  causes,  and  regards 
nothing  as  true,  which  does  not  beloug  to  the 
visible  and  natural  world.  In  this  state  the 
soul  imagines  itself  most  natural,  when  it  be- 
lieves the  least,  though  in  fact  it  is  all  the 
while  most  unnatural,  because  it  strives  against 
the  laws  of  nature  within  :  until  finally  it  per- 
ceives that  it  has  wandered  from  the  truth, 
since  it  has  become  unsettled  and  unhappy. 
All  man's  discontent  is  caused  by  his  departure 
from  nature,  his  inconsistency,  and  because  he 
wishes  to  become  what  he  cannot  be.  Ex- 
perience at  last  makes  him  wiser,  and  the  more 
he  learns,  the  more  he  feels  that  he  cannot 
understand  the  grass  that  grows,  nor  point  out, 
to  God,  the  motes  in  the  sunbeam.  The  more 
his  knowledge  increases,  the  more  is  he  con- 
vinced that  he  knows  but  little.  The  sage 
approaches,  although  by  another  path,  to  the 
childlike  nature,  and  his  perception  of  the  nar- 
rowness of  human  knowledge,  brings  him  back 
to  the  belief  in  the  Invisible  and  Eternal." 

"My  good  friend,"  said  Herr  Von  Schwarz, 
"  I  have  heard  all  this  before,  and  I  can  only 
reply,  that  you  have  foolishly  mixed  up  much 


134  ^scbofcfce's  G&les 

truth  and  error,  with  the  strong  tendency  to 
mysticism  which  you  possess  ;  you  have  prob- 
ably read  something  in  a  book,  which  yon  have 
not  understood,  and  now  give  it  forth  in  a  dis- 
torted shape.  You  fancy  your  power  of  imagi- 
nation is  depth  of  judgment,  and  there  is  your 
mistake." 

' '  I  beg,  Herr  Rath,  that  you  will  at  least 
show  me  where  my  power  of  imagination  has 
misled  me  in  what  I  have  just  said,  or  where  I 
have  misunderstood  what  I  have  read  ?  " 

"  Young  man,  when  you  speak  of  children, 
and  of  ignorance,  you  may  speak  from  experi- 
ence ;  but  he  who  wishes  to  speak  of  the  wisdom 
of  men,  must  belong  either  to  their  ranks,  or 
take  something  out  of  books.  Do  you  now 
speak  from  books,  or,  more  wisely,  from  ex- 
perience ?  But  I  am  losing  time.  The  main 
point  remains — spare  my  sons  your  whims  ; 
you  will  do  me  a  favor.  And  now  I  must  ask, 
to  what  religion  do  you  really  belong?  " 

Frock  colored  and  said  nothing. 

"lam  accustomed  to  receive  an  answer  when 
I  ask  a  question,"  said  Herr  Von  Schwarz,  in 
his  usual  tone  of  command. 

"Herr  Rath,"  said  Frock,  "I  can  be  silent 
no  longer  ;  you  understand,  better  than  any 
one,  the  art  of  lowering  a  man  in  his  own 
opinion,  and  of  destroying  all  belief  in  his  own 


Sonatban  tfrocfc  135 

worth.  I  would  have  left  your  house  long 
since,  had  I  not  borne  every  slight  from  love  to 
your  sons,  who  have  twined  themselves  round 
my  heart.  I  know  that  I  have  too  little  merit 
in  your  eyes  to  be  of  any  importance  ;  but  be 
generous  enough,  at  least,  to  leave  me  con- 
fidence in  myself."  ,. 

"Well,  Frock,  these  are  your  usual  subter- 
fuges ;  were  I  to  trouble  myself  to  bring  you  to 
your  senses,  and  to  a  more  just  view  of  things, 
I  should  not  succeed  ;  for  my  part,  if  you  wish 
to  leave  the  house,  I  shall  not  detain  you.  My 
children  have  outgrown  your  guidance  ;  they 
should  study  Latin  and  Greek,  which  you  do 
not  understand,  while  you  are  deficient  in  many 
other  necessary  branches.  But  do  as  you  like. 
Only  remember  my  words,  whenever  you  go 
into  the  world,  you  will  be  the  loser.  Self- 
conceit,  and  a  total  unfitness  for  the  simplest 
concerns  of  life,  will  bring  you  to  miser}'.  By 
whom  are  you  either  cared  for  or  esteemed  ? 
Do  you  not  live  like  a  hermit,  in  the  midst  of 
the  city?" 

With  this,  Herr  Von  Schwarz  turned  away, 
and  Frock  went  sorrowfully  to  his  pupils. 

Such  discussions  often  took  place  between 
these  two  persons,  but  they  did  not  cause  Frock 
to  leave  the  house.     He  really  clung  with  inex- 


136  ^scbokfce's  ftaies 

pressible  affection  to  Schwarz's  children,  and 
usually,  after  a  conversation  with  their  father, 
he  drew  them  more  closely  to  his  heart,  mur- 
muring : 

"  You  are  the  only  ones  who  understand  and 
appreciate  me  ;  if  I  lose  you,  I  lose  all." 

•If  Frock  had  left  the  house,  he  would  have 
been  entirely  without  prospects  for  the  future. 
Probably  the  Rath  knew  this  full  well ;  nor  did 
he  ever  forget  that  Frock  came  to  him  in  very 
needy  circumstances.  As  Schwarz  at  that  time 
required  an  instructor,  or  rather  a  superin- 
tendent for  his  children,  he  had  taken  him  for 
little  more  than  board  and  lodgings  ;  no  agree- 
ment was  made  either  as  to  fees  or  salary,  so 
that  whatever  Schwarz  bestowed,  although  it 
was  scarcely  sufficient  for  respectable  clothing, 
was  considered  as  a  favor.  This  was  all  right 
in  the  Rath's  estimation,  for  everybody  and 
every  thing  must  be  subservient  to  his  caprices. 
On  this  account,  Jonathan  Frock  led  a  quiet, 
secluded  life,  and  rarely  mixed  in  society.  He 
was  most  gay  and  open-hearted  when  he  was 
with  his  two  little  friends  whom  he  educated ; 
when  he  could  be  inspired  with  confidence  he 
seemed  a  different  creature ;  he  became  more 
lively,  more  eloquent ;  his  eyes  flashed  with  in- 
ward fire  ;  but  this  disappeared  the  moment  he 
felt  himself  a  stranger  and  out  of  place.    In  the 


5onatban  ffrock  137 

house  of  Schwarz  a  reserved  manner  had  almost 
become  a  second  nature  to  him.  Frau  Von 
Schwarz  encouraged  him  as  little  as  her  hus- 
band ;  she  treated  Frock  and  all  her  servants  in 
the  same  haughty  manner  that  Rath  maintained 
toward  her,  and  there  was,  therefore,  a  greater 
distance  between  the  tutor  and  herself,  than 
there  was  between  him  and  Herr  Von  Schwarz. 
Frock,  iu  his  exterior,  was  not  ill-looking  ; 
not  handsome,  perhaps,  but  well  made,  with 
an  open,  agreeable,  and  rather  pale  counte- 
nance, which  was  rendered  even  paler,  by  jet- 
black  curling  hair  ;  and  soft  white  hands,  which 
mauy  a  maiden  might  envy  him.  He  had  a 
low  melodious  voice,  and  much  grace  of  man- 
ner, when  he  became  animated  in  conversation. 
He  was  apparently  about  eight-and-twenty  years 
of  age  ;  his  dress,  though  very  simple,  was  al- 
ways perfectly  neat.  A  religious  feeling  evinced 
itself  in  his  conversation,  }^et  he  seldom  or 
never  went  to  church.  Often  in  his  gayest 
mood,  and  when,  with  laughing  eyes,  he  seemed 
inclined  to  give  himself  up  to  amusement,  he 
would  suddenly  become  silent,  and  one  could 
perceive  that  some  sad  recollection  came  over 
him.  Frequently,  in  the  most  indifferent  con- 
versation, without  any  reason,  he  would  color, 
and  become  embarrassed  ;  a  certain  proof,  either 
that  he  was  irritable,  or  (as  his  paleness  indi- 


138  ZtecboKfce's  Gales 

cated)  of  uncertain  health.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
Rath,  however,  these  changes  betokened  some- 
thing evil.  He  had,  therefore,  at  different  times 
urgently  inquired  about  it ;  but  could  discover 
nothing  more  than  that  Frock  was  a  native  of 
Alsace,  born  of  poor  parents,  and  had  served  as 
a  common  soldier  under  the  French  colors  in 
Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Egypt.  Having  been 
wounded  in  the  leg  by  a  cannon-ball,  he  be- 
came tired  of  a  soldier's  life,  and  abandoned  it, 
probably  without  leave. 

As  Frock  conducted  himself  in  the  most  quiet 
and  irreproachable  manner,  the  Rath  did  not 
push  the  matter  further,  but  looked  upon  him 
as  an  insignificant  person,  and  never  for  a 
moment  imagined  that  he  would  have  an  im- 
portant influence  on  his  destiny. 

A  few  weeks  after  this  conversation,  an  event 
took  place,  which  removed  brother  Wonderful 
(as  Herr  Von  Schwarz  called  Frock)  suddenly 
from  the  house.  He  was  instructing  the  chil- 
dren in  history,  and  was  speaking,  with  his 
usual  warmth,  of  the  Mohammedan  religion ; 
of  the  many  excellencies  contained  in  the 
Koran  of  the  Turks,  and  of  the  virtues,  which 
are  more  frequently  found  in  disciples  of  the 
prophet  of  Mecca,  than  among  Christians.  At 
this  moment  Herr  Von  Schwarz  came  in  ;  he 


5onatban  tfrocfc  139 

listened  for  a  time  smiling,  but  smiling  bitterly, 
for  he  was  out  of  humor.  He  had  heard  acci- 
dentally, that  at  court  they  had  been  amusing 
themselves  over  one  of  his  reports  upon  judicial 
reform  ;  wishing,  therefore,  for  a  pretence,  he 
vented  his  indignation  in  angry  mockery  of  the 
pale,  patient  expounder  of  the  Arabian  prophet. 
Frock  was  silent,  and  gazed  sadly  around  him. 
The  boys  did  not  listen  to  their  father,  but 
looked  sorrowfully  in  their  teacher's  eyes, 
as  if  they  wished  to  console  him  ;  and  laid 
their  hands  upon  his  shoulder,  seeming  to 
say,  ' '  Compose  yourself,  we  still  belong  to 
you." 

This  scene  was  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Major  Von  Tulpen,  a  retired  king's 
officer,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  at  the 
house.  He  was  related  to  the  Herr  Von 
Schwarz,  and  supposed  himself  a  very  good 
friend  of  the  Rath's,  for,  in  past  years,  when 
Herr  Von  Schwarz  was  very  little  known,  he 
had  rendered  him  important  services.  At  that 
time  Schwarz  had  lived  with  the  major  a  year 
and  a  half  without  compensation,  and  his  re- 
commendations had  also  been  the  means  of 
opening  to  him  his  subsequently  brilliant  ca- 
reer. Herr  Von  Tulpen  was  a  remarkably 
brave,  but  somewhat  hasty  man  ;  who  was  very 
fond  of  telling  stories  of  his  past  compaigns, 


140  ^scbofcfce's  £ales 

though  his  memory  rather  failed  him  in  names 
and  numbers. 

It  was  this  very  deficiency  in  his  memory  for 
numbers,  which  now  brought  him  to  Herr  Von 
Schwarz. 

"  I  am  in  a  cursed  plight,  good  friend  Rath," 
cried  he  ;  "you  must  do  me  a  kind  turn." 

"With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Herr  Von  Schwarz.  "lam  listening  with  de- 
light to  the  instruction  of  my  children,  and  the 
commendation  of  the  Turkish  religion,  from 
the  lips  of  this  youth.  We  will  not  allow  the 
Mussulmen  to  excel  us  in  the  virtues  of  friend- 
ship, generosity,  gratitude,  and  charity." 

"So  much  the  better;  I  come  just  at  the 
right  moment,"  cried  Herr  Von  Tulpen,  "for  I 
must  have  money,  even  should  I  steal  it.  Come  ; 
a  few  words  in  private." 

The  word  money  had  its  effect  upon  Herr 
Von  Schwarz  ;  he  was  not  accustomed  to  have 
the  major  beg  favors,  much  less  money,  from 
him,  and  he  hoped,  by  avoiding  a  tete-a-tete,  to 
escape  his  urgent  request  more  easily. 

"Speak  without  reserve,"  said  he  ;  "I  have 
no  secrets  with  my  children  and  their  tutor. ' ' 

"The  deuce!  that's  good,"  said  the  major, 
embarrassed;  "but  I  do  not  want  to  expose 
my  situation  to  every  one." 

This  was  exactly  what  Schwarz  wished  ;  and 


Sonatban  tfrocfc  141 

he  therefore  remained  in  the  study,  in  spite  of 
all  the  oaths  and  entreaties  of  the  major,  whose 
anxiety  betrayed  itself  in  every  feature.  What- 
ever he  said,  Schwarz  treated  as  a  joke.  The 
major  ran  up  and  down  the  room  (Schwarz 
hoped  he  would  run  out  of  it),  then  stood  still, 
and  after  whirling  his  military  hat  three  times 
round,  said  : 

"  Well,  the  old  nick  must  have  been  in  me, 
when  I  was  so  stupid  as  to  let  that  merchant — 
merchant  what  d'  ye  call  him  ? — you  know,  my 
neighbor  there,  who  has  failed  and  gone  off;  in 
short,  that  I  should  have  let  him  give  my  name 
as  his  security  for  a  thousand  florins  ;  I,  who 
do  not  own  a  thousand  florins,  must  now  pay  a 
thousand  florins — think  of  that  !  /,  who  have 
not  a  thousand  groats  !  " 

"That  is  very  bad,"  said  Herr  Von  Schwarz, 
very  seriously  and  politely.  "  Are  you  the  only 
security  ?  " 

"  The  only  one  ;  think  of  it !  and  as  the  con- 
founded paper  stands,  my  whole  property  is 
in  pledge  at  present,  and  for  the  future.  I  have 
told  them  explicitly  at  court,  very  explicitly, 
that  I  have  not  a  thousand  groats  ;  and  I  have 
told  that  Finanz  Rath — what  d'  ye  call  him? — 
to  whom  I  had  to  pay  the  thousand  florins,  the 
same.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  I 
shrugged    mine,    and    so   we   parted.      I   now 


142  %schokkefB  Gales 

thought  it  was  settled,  for  the  present,  very 
much  to  the  loss  of  the  Finanz  Rath.  Well, 
I  waited  for  my  pension  till  quarter-day  ;  waited 
three  or  four  weeks  longer — nothing  came. 
Not  a  groat  in  the  house,  the  last  potato 
cooked,  no  baker  paid  for  three  weeks,  and  the 
butcher's  bill  sent  in.  I  must  eat  ;  my  two 
girls  are  also  flesh  and  blood.  I  ran  to  the  war- 
office,  thinking  they  had  forgotten  it.  The 
Herr  there  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  :  '  I 
am  very  sorry,  Finanz  Rath — what  is  his  name  ? 
— has  caused  your  pension  to  be  sequestered  ; 
you  certainly  know  it  ? '  '  Go  to  the  old  Harry  !  ' 
said  I,  'I  know  nothing  about  it.'  I  run  to 
Finanz  Rath — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? — he  shrugs 
his  shoulders,  and  says  :  '  The  court  has  sen- 
tenced you,  as  the  merchant's  security,  to  meet 
his  payments  ;  you  know  that,  major  ?  ' — 'The 
court  go  to  the  dogs  !  I  know  nothing  about 
it.  What  shall  I  and  my  two  daughters  live 
upon  ?  I  can  scarcely  escape  starvation,  with 
my  major's  and  captain's  half-pay.'  I  then 
begged  the  Finanz  Rath  for  five  dollars  every 
quarter,  and  promised  to  pay  it,  however  slowly. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  May  the  furies 
take  all  shoulder-sh ruggers  !  I  now  come  to 
you." 

The  Rath  seemed  very  much  disposed  to  shrug 
his  shoulders  too  ;  but  said,  however :  "It  is  cer- 


3-onatban  jfrock  143 

tainly  very  bad  ;  you  did  very  wrong  in  stand- 
ing security  so  thoughtlessly.  There  is  nothing 
to  be  done  unless  you  protest  against  the  sen- 
tence of  the  court." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  protest  against  the  sen- 
tence of  the  court ;  but  do  you  help  me  in  my 
great  need.  I  know  no  one  but  you,  and  it  is 
to  you,  therefore,  I  come.  Advance  me  a  thou- 
sand florins  ;  I  will  repay  you  fifty  every  year. 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  give  it  to  me ;  in  a  few 
years  you  will  have  it  all  back." 

"By  a  few  years  you  mean  twenty,"  said 
Herr  Von  Schwarz,  and  thoughtfully  turned 
away  his  head. 

"Well,  yes — twenty." 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  continued  the  Rath, 
and  stepped  back  a  little,  "one  is  not  always  in 
cash.     I  have  really  no  ready  money." 

"  Will  nobody  lend  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  debts  already  that  you  know  nothing 
of.  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  help  you  at  this 
time." 

"  Not  in  your  power  ?  "  stammered  Herr  Von 
Tulpen,  and  for  a  moment,  could  say  no  more. 
"  Or,  to  speak  more  plainly,  you  will  not  do  it." 

"The  way,  not  the  will,  is  wanting,  dear 
major." 

"  Then  I  must  buy  a  farthing's  worth  of  pow- 
der, and  put  a  ball  through  my  head  ;  and  you 


i44  ftschokk&s  ttaies 

must  support  my  little  Leouore,  as  she  is  your 
god-daughter. ' ' 

The  Rath  shrugged  his  shoulders  instead  of 
answering.  The  major,  in  the  greatest  despair, 
implored  his  assistance  in  the  most  touching 
manner.  Firmly,  politely,  but  very  decidedly, 
the  Rath  refused.  Fortunately,  at  this  moment, 
a  servant  announced  a  visitor.  Herr  Von 
Schwarz  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

"Then  you  will  not?"  called  the  major 
after  him. 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  Rath  coldly,  at  the 
door,  and  disappeared. 

The  major  staggered,  and  sunk  upon  the 
nearest  chair,  remaining  for  some  time  motion- 
less. At  last,  tearing  his  hat  with  fury,  and 
turning  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  cried,  in  a  hol- 
low, despairing  voice : 

"  Must  I  and  my  children  starve  ?" 

Frock  would  have  long  since  retired,  with  his 
pupils,  but  was  observing  the  major  with  much 
compassion.  He  now  timidly  approached  him, 
and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  great  re- 
spect :  "  Pray,  wait  a  moment." 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  said  the  major  in  a  tone 
of  thunder. 

"Pray,  wait  one  moment,"  repeated  Frock 
imploringly,   and  left  the   room   hastily.     He 


Sonatban  tfrock  145 

returned  in  a  few  minutes,  and  going  up  to  the 
major,  offered  him  a  snuff-box.  Herr  Von  Tulpen 
took  no  notice  of  him,  and  sat  lost  in  thought. 

"  Take  it,"  said  Frock. 

"Away!"  cried  the  major,  thumping  his 
cane  on  the  floor.  "  Does  he  think  me  a  fool? 
I  do  not  snuff. ' ' 

"This  box  is  worth  more  than  a  thousand 
florins  ;  I  give  it  to  you  !  Pray  take  it,  Herr 
Major?" 

The  major  looked  at  the  box  angrily,  askance, 
but  opened  his  eyes,  when  he  saw  its  wonderful 
brilliancy.  It  was  a  valuable  gold  box,  worked  in 
enamel,  and  set  with  large  diamonds.  Herr  Von 
Tulpen  looked  first  at  the  box,  then  at  Frock. 

"  What  is  it  for  ?  "  said  he. 

"Take  it,  Herr  Major;  you  can  pay  your 
debts  with  it.  I  will  go  wTith  you  to  the  jew- 
eller's, for  him  to  set  a  value  on  it.     Come  !  " 

"Herr!"  cried  the  major  rising,  and  in  a 
much  more  gentle  voice,  "  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Jonathan  Frock." 

"Jonathan  Frock?  And  do  you  think  that 
that — what  d'  ye  call  it  ? — is  worth  a  thousand 
florins?" 

"  More  than  that,  among  connoisseurs. 
Come  !  "  answered  Frock. 

"  And  you  will  pay  my  debts  with  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly:  with  all  my  heart." 


146  ^scbofcfce's  tTales 

"  But  who  are  you  ?  " 

"I  am  Jonathan  Frock,  the  tutor  of  these 
children." 

The  old  man  was  silent ;  he  looked  at  Frock 
till  the  tears  in  his  eyes  blinded  him.  He  then 
embraced  him,  saying,  in  low  broken  accents  : 

"  Then,  Jonathan,  let  me  be  your  David  !  " 

Frock  quieted  him,  aud  they  proceeded  to 
the  jeweller's.  The  box  was  valued  at  twelve 
hundred  florins,  and  the  jeweller  at  length 
bought  it  at  that  price — though  he  assured  them 
a  thousand  times  that  he  had  been  too  hasty  in 
estimating  its  value.  They  then  went  to  the 
major's  creditor.  The  debt  was  paid  ;  every 
thing  set  right  at  the  war-office,  and  the  major 
reinstated  in  his  quarter's  pay. 

In  the  meantime  the  Rath  had  learned  the 
whole  occurrence  from  his  children.  "  A  gold 
snuff-box,  set  with  diamonds,"  repeated  he,  at 
least  twenty  times  ;  "  how  did  the  wretch  come 
by  a  gold  snuff-box  ?  "  He  found  an  answer  as 
soon  as  he  had  asked  the  question  :  "  Stolen  !  " 
said  he  ;  immediately  sent  for  a  locksmith  and 
had  Frock's  little  trunk  opened.  He  himself 
looked  to  see  if  it  contained  no  valuable  arti- 
cles ;  but,  excepting  some  crumpled  papers, 
linen,  and  clothes,  he  found  nothing. 

He  had  just  finished  his  search,  when  Frock 
entered  in  his  usual  quiet  way,  and  bowed  re- 


$onatban  afrocft  T47 

spectfully.  So  soon,  however,  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  open  trunk,  his  countenance  suddenly 
changed,  from  astonishment  to  severity,  from 
severity  to  anger. 

He  was  once  more  one  of  Napoleon's  soldiers. 
He  gave  the  Rath  a  blow  in  the  breast  with  his 
fist,  shook  him  to  and  fro  several  times,  and 
then  threw  him  against  the  wall. 

''How!  have  you  presumed  to?  Do  you 
take  me  for  a  thief?  "  cried  Frock,  in  a  violent, 
lion-like  voice.  "Who  gave  you  the  right  to 
disturb  and  pull  over  other  people's  property, 
and  to  break  open  private  locks  ?  Do  you  not 
know  the  laws  ?  " 

The  Rath,  surprised  by  this  extraordinary  and 
summary  mode  of  proceeding,  lost  a  little  of  his 
usual  coolness.  He  confessed,  afterward,  that 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  lost  his  pres- 
ence of  mind.  There  was  nothing  for  him  even 
to  find  fault  with,  for,  besides  being  discovered 
in  an  unlawful  act,  there  was  something  fearful 
and  unaccountable  in  Frock's  metamorphosis. 

This  once  submissive  and  timid  man  had  had 
the  courage  to  shake  a  Rath  ;  and  he,  formerly 
like  a  lamb,  was  now  terrible  with  his  fiery 
glance  and  severity.  The  thundering  tone  of 
his  voice  appeared  as  little  to  belong  to  him  as 
the  giant-like  strength  of  his  arm. 

With  an  air  of  command  Frock  showed  Herr 


148  ^scbofcfce's  tTalea 

Von  Schwarz  the  door,  who,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, and  stammering  out  an  excuse,  prepared 
to  leave  the  room.  Scarcely,  however,  had  he 
left  the  enemy's  territory,  when,  with  a  judge- 
like majesty,  he  turned  round  and  called  : 
"  Herr  Frock,  you  instantly  leave  my  house." 
Frock,  doubtless,  had  already  formed  some 
such  intention,  for  he  had,  from  the  window, 
beckoned  to  a  man  in  the  street  to  carry  away 
his  trunk,  which,  after  looking  over  the  papers 
and  replacing  the  books  and  clothes,  he  care- 
fully locked.  He  then  sought  his  weeping 
pupils,  embraced  them  with  silent  emotion,  and 
left  the  Schwarzischen  house  forever. 

Very  early  the  next  morning  Herr  Von  Tul- 
pen  arrived.  He  found  Frau  Von  Schwarz 
alone  ;  her  husband  had  gone  out  on  business. 

"  So  much  the  better,  dear  madam,"  said  the 
major  ;  "  for  I  am  not  looking  for  him,  and  do 
not  care  if  I  never  see  him  again.  But  where 
is  my  Jonathan  ?  " 

"  Vour  Jonathan,  Herr  Major  ?  I  do  not  know 
him." 

"  What !  not  my  Jonathan  ?  He  is  commonly 
called — how  is  it  ? — Jonathan  Propf,  or  Kropf. 
You  knew  the — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? — the  tutor. ' ' 

"  Ah  !  Frock.  He  is  no  longer  with  us.  My 
husband  sent  him  out  of  the  house  yesterday." 


5onatban  tfrocfc  149 

"  Out  of  the  house  !  Why  ?  because  he  is 
more  generous  than  your  husband  was  ?  I  am 
a  poor  wretch  dependent  on  my  pension — have 
nothing  but  my  quarter's  pay  ;  but  I  will  take 
that  Jonathan — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? — home, 
and  support  him  to  his  last  hour." 

"  Take  care  !  He  is  a  bad  man  ;  he  has  not 
a  good  conscience,  as  he  discovered  long  since. 
You  might  be  taking  a  wicked  companion  into 
your  house." 

"  A  wicked  companion  !  "  cried  the  major,  his 
face  coloring,  and  his  eyes  flashing  with  anger 

at  the  words.     "  Go  to  the ;  but  I  will  say 

nothing.  Pray,  my  dear  madam,  spare  me  all 
these  insinuations." 

"  You  misunderstand  me,  Herr  Major.  lam 
not  speaking  of  you." 

"But  of  Jonathan  Kropf.  Tell  me  immedi- 
ately where  he  is." 

"  He  left  us  yesterday." 

"  But  where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

"  We  neither  know  nor  care." 

"  But  I  do.  Adieu  !  No  ;  write  me  down  his 
cursed  name  first.  Is  it  Kropf  ?  Write  it  on  a 
bit  of  paper.  I  will  go  from  street  to  street,  and 
will  soon  find  him." 

"  If  he  has  not  stolen  away,  he  would  scarcely 
remain  in  the  city,"  said  Frau  Von  Schwarz, 
giving  him  the  name  upon  a  paper. 


150  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

Laughing  heartily,  the  major  put  up  the 
paper,  saying  :  "  Is  your  husband  either  king 
or  governor?  "  touched  his  sword  significantly, 
bowed,  and  withdrew. 

He  went,  as  he  had  said,  from  street  to  street, 
through  the  whole  city  ;  returned  very  tired, 
dined  with  his  children,  and  again  setting  forth 
in  the  afternoon,  questioned  all  the  acquaint- 
ances whom  he  met.  This  he  continued  day 
after  day  ;  and  at  length,  after  weeks  of  fruitless 
searching,  he  gave  up  the  hope  of  finding  in  the 
city  his  dear  friend  in  need. 

And  yet  Frock  was  not  far  off.  He  had  spent 
the  night  at  the  best  hotel  ;  the  next  day  he 
had  hired  a  small  room  from  an  old  widow 
woman,  and  sent  an  advertisement  to  the  news- 
papers, informing  the  public  that  in  the  Markt- 
gasse  No.  171 7,  in  the  first  story,  and  at  any 
hour  of  the  day,  persons  wishing  to  have  Ger- 
man or  Latin  well  copied,  or  rendered  from 
German  into  French,  or  vice  versa,  memorials 
or  letters  composed,  would  meet  with  speedy, 
reasonable,  and  trustworthy  attention. 

Frock  had  chosen  a  mode  of  business  which 
would  keep  him  from  starving.  But  he  did  not 
omit  diligently  looking  through  the  newspapers, 
to  see  if  any  one  were  in  need  of  a  tutor  ;  in 
this  hope  he  was,  however,  disappointed.     His 


3-onatban  ffrocfc  151 

writing  and  copying  office  soon  obtained  much 
custom,  perhaps  from  the  large  yet  elegant  type 
in  which  he  had  written,  upon  royal  folio,  the 
sign  hanging  outside  of  the  widow's  door. 

The  learned  brought  him  their  illegible  man- 
uscripts to  be  written  over,  for  the  press.  Ser- 
vants, maids,  and  journeymen  called  upon  him 
to  compose  letters,  either  to  their  hard-hearted 
relations  or  faithful  lovers.  Others  required 
translations.  In  short,  he  made  money»in  vari- 
ous ways,  and  though  it  might  be  but  little,  it 
was  still  sufficient  for  his  more  immediate 
wants.  His  business  increased  in  the  course 
of  a  few  months,  as  his  expertness  and  reasona- 
ble charges  became  known. 

His  very  remarkable  memory  was  of  the  ut- 
most advantage  to  those  who  had  forgotten  both 
the  date  and  contents  of  the  letters  they  had 
given  him  to  write.  He  preserved  the  most  in- 
imitable order  ;  for  in  a  book  arranged  for  the 
purpose  he  always  noted  down  the  date  of  the 
letter,  the  name  of  the  person  who  had  sent  it, 
and  its  actual  contents. 

Though  his  occupation  was  a  laborious  one, 
and  employed  him  both  night  and  day,  yet  it 
was  not  without  some  amusement.  He  learned 
the  secrets  of  many  a  loving  heart,  the  affairs 
of  many  families,  before  unknown  to  him,  and 
thus  extended  his  knowledge  of  human  nature. 


152  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

This  state  of  independence  pleased  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if,  in  leaving  the  Schwarzis- 
chen  house,  he  had  exchanged  Algerian  slavery 
for  blessed  freedom.  The  loss  of  his  beloved 
pupils  long  depressed  his  spirits  ;  but  this  sor- 
row he  overcame,  and  the  still  greater  one  of 
having  no  one  to  cling  to,  or  whom  he  could, 
call  his  own.  It  gave  him  great  pain,  when  a 
stranger  one  day  came  in,  and  begged  to  have 
several  pages  of  a  long  political  negotiation 
copied  immediately  ;  on  opening  it,  he  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  of  the  Rath  Von  Schwarz. 
The  bearer  said  he  would  wait  till  it  was  fin- 
ished, as  it  did  not  require  to  be  beautifully, 
but  speedily  written.  Frock  performed  his  task 
with  disgust,  for  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  every 
moment  the  detested  countenance  of  his  former 
tyrant  was  before  him. 

He  very  seldom  went  into  society,  partly  from 
want  of  time,  but  still  more  from  the  want  of 
money.  For  the  sake  of  health  he  sometimes 
took  long  walks  in  the  fresh  air,  but  he  more 
frequently  made  use  of  his  good  Dolleux's  tele- 
scope, to  examine  the  neighborhood  far  and 
near.  The  back  of  his  room  overlooked  a  num- 
ber of  gardens.  In  the  distance  could  be  seen 
the  suburbs  of  the  town,  composed  for  the  most 
part  of  small  ill-looking  houses,  and  beyond 
these  lay  the  open  country. 


5cmatban  ffrock  153 

No  astronomer  watches  nightly  more  diligent- 
ly, or  with  greater  exactness,  the  starry  heavens 
to  discover  a  comet  invisible  to  the  naked  eye, 
or  a  new  planet,  or  the  mountains  in  the  shining 
Venus,  than  did  Frock  every  day  inspect,  one  by 
one,  the  objects  of  his  horizon.  This  innocent 
amusement  became,  at  length,  the  only  pleasure 
of  the  easily  contented  hermit.  He  regularly, 
every  day  at  the  same  hour,  stepped  to  the  win- 
dow, however  pressing  might  be  the  work  laying 
on  his  table ;  if  customers  came  in,  he  could 
not  be  disturbed  ;    they  must  wait. 

The  reason  of  this  is  soon  told.  He  had  in- 
deed discovered  no  star,  only  a  new  Venus. 
His  observations  were  particularly  directed  to 
one  of  the  houses  in  the  distant  suburbs.  It 
was  a  small  but  pretty  house  ;  the  back  of  it, 
and  a  court-yard,  in  which  stood  a  well,  alone 
were  visible  to  him. 

To  this  well,  every  morning,  at  six  o'clock  in 
summer,  and  eight  in  the  winter,  came  a 
maiden,  well-grown  and  delicately  formed  ; 
she  filled  a  pail  with  water,  carried  it  into  the 
house,  and  was  sometimes  busied  in  this  way 
for  more  than  an  hour.  The  young  girl's  occu- 
pations at  the  well  were  various  ;  in  the  morn- 
ing she  washed  vegetables  or  salad,  and  some- 
times even  her  face  and  neck  ;  but  did  every 
thing  with  such  unsullied  grace,  that  the  looker- 


154  £scbofcfce's  Gales 

on  would  have  been  prepossessed  in  her  favor, 
even  had  her  face  been  less  pretty.  That  the 
water-bearer  was  beautiful,  however,  was  quite 
apparent  to  our  astronomer.  Her  thick,  golden 
hair,  which  usually  fell  in  curls  from  under  a 
fine  snow-white  cap,  her  soft  red  cheeks,  the 
beautiful  shape  of  her  nose,  and  her  little 
mouth,  certainly  spoke  in  favor  of  his  opinion. 
He  fancied  he  could  look  into  her  blue  eyes, 
and  from  her  eyes  into  her  secret  heart.  Here 
every  one  must  understand  he  was  rather  too 
imaginative.  Who  has  ever  been  able,  even 
with  the  aid  of  a  telescope,  to  make  discoveries 
in  a  young  girl's  heart  ? 

According  to  Frock's  astronomical  theory, 
the  young  girl  was  no  common  servant  maid, 
but  an  industrious,  thrifty,  citizen's  daughter, 
modest,  innocent,  grave,  and  sensible.  Only 
once,  in  two  hundred  and  sixty-four  careful  ob- 
servations, he  thought  he  heard  her  singing, 
that  is,  through  his  telescope.  One  would 
imagine  her  voice  might  be  lost  in  the  immense 
distance. 

At  first  he  supposed  her  to  be  a  washerwoman, 
for  every  week,  besides  carrying  in  the  water, 
he  saw  her  busied  in  hanging  and  drying 
clothes  in  the  court-yard. 

Sometimes  he  would  have  willingly  gone  to 
her  assistance  when  a  piece  fell  from  the  line, 


3-onatban  fftocfc  155 

which  was  fastened  to  three  trees.  He  aban- 
doned this  hypothesis,  wThen  he  observed  the 
regular  return  of  every  piece  belonging  to  the 
wash  he  had  seen  the  week  before. 

From  the  smoke  which  now  and  then  arose 
from  a  wing  of  the  house,  and  still  more  from 
the  blue  linen,  and  cotton  clothes,  that  some- 
times were  blowing  about  the  roof  of  the 
house  itself,  the  father  might  be  supposed  to  be 
a  dyer.  This  conjecture  amounted  to  certainty, 
when  one  day  an  elderly  man,  with  rolled-up 
shirt  sleeves  and  very  blue  hands,  stood  at  the 
well  with  the  water-bearer.  She  smiled  in  a 
friendly  and  cordial  manner.  This  sight  (the 
smile,  not  the  blue  hands),  charmed  our  as- 
tronomer so  much,  that  he  not  only  joined  in 
the  laugh  from  his  observatory,  but  must 
needs  smile  the  whole  day. 

Ah  !  how  little  is  required  to  make  a  man 
happy. 

Thus  a  year  passed  away  with  poor  Frock. 
What  is  there  to  relate  in  his  simple,  laborious, 
yet  joyful  life  !  The  same  story  was  renewed 
each  day.  He  was  contented — he  loved — he 
once  more  had  a  being  in  the  wTorld  to  whom 
he  was  joined.  But  the  most  unaccountable 
thing  was,  that,  from  a  singular  caprice,  he 
never  gave  himself  the  trouble  of  admiring  the 


156  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

dyer's  daughter  nearer  at  hand,  or,  indeed, 
cared  to   attract  her  attention   to  himself. 

She  could  not  dream  that  she  was,  every  day, 
observed  and  loved  through  a  telescope  ;  still 
less  would  she  think  of  arming  herself  with 
one,  to  seek  out  the  man  in  the  observatory. 
He,  therefore,  remained  unknown  to  her,  and, 
without  doubt,  so  he  wished  to  be.  Jonathan 
Frock  had  some  odd  notions.  He  had,  per- 
haps, found  by  experience  that  some  beauties^ 
to  appear  lovely,  must  be  seen  only  at  a  certain 
distance  :  for  many  who  seem  attractive  in  the 
distance,  fail,  on  approaching  them,  to  make 
our  happiness. 

Even  the  moderate  happiness  which  Frock 
now  enjoyed,  was  not  of  long  continuance. 

Very  late  one  evening  some  one  knocked  at 
his  door,  and  a  strange  but  polite  voice  was 
heard,  urgently  demanding  admittance. 
Frock  arose,  dressed  himself,  and  opened  the 
door.  A  gentleman  entered,  in  a  gray  surtout, 
with  a  sword  by  his  side  ;  behind  him  stood  an 
armed  soldier. 

"Are  you  Jonathan  Frock?" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  he,  very  much  aston- 
ished. 

"  It  grieves  me  to  be  obliged  to  inform  you, 
that  you  are  arrested  by  order  of  the  king's 
secret    police,    and,    after    delivering    up    all 


5cmatban  aFrocfc  157 

your  effects,  must  follow  where  I  shall  lead 
you." 

Frock  thought  he  could  scarce  have  heard 
aright.  He  was  conscious  of  committing  no 
other  sin  in  his  retirement,  unless  he  had  pur- 
sued the  beautiful  dyer's  daughter  too  passion- 
ately with  his  telescope.  In  the  meantime, 
neither  delay  nor  resistance  would  be  of  any 
avail.  Two  strong  policemen  entered  the  room, 
to  assist  in  packing  and  sealing  up  every  thing. 
Frock,  undismayed,  and  convinced  they  had 
mistaken  him  for  some  other  person,  dressed 
himself  with  more  than  usual  care,  and  with  the 
permission  of  the  guard,  put  in  his  pocket  his 
little  store  of  money,  and  his  telescope.  It  is 
difficult  to  conceive  what  the  last  was  for.  He 
perhaps  hoped  to  be  put  in  a  tower  of  the 
prison  commanding  a  more  extensive  prospect 
and  from  which,  with  the  aid  of  his  telescope, 
he  would  find  his  heart's  delight,  his  companion 
with  golden  locks. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  accompanied 
his  conductors  to  the  place  of  destination.  It 
was  a  long,  high  building,  with  courts  and 
broad  cross-ways  in  all  directions.  A  strong, 
heavily-bolted  door  was  opened.  He  was 
led  into  a  small  room,  furnished  with  a  bed,  a 
table,  and  a  wooden  stool.  They  wished  him 
good-night,  closed  and  bolted  the  door,  and  left 


158  Zecbokke's  Galea 

him  in  darkness.  His  many  sorrowful  reflec- 
tions prevented  his  enjoying  much  repose ; 
toward  morning,  however,  he  fell  into  a  sound, 
sweet  sleep.  They  awakened  him  very  late, 
and  brought  him  a  breakfast  of  savory,  nour- 
ishing soup.  Till  now  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  making  a  very  frugal  meal  in  the  morning, 
of  bread  and  water.  The  great  cleanliness  of 
his  new  apartment  pleased  him  ;  but  he  much 
disliked  the  view  from  the  grated  window, 
which  consisted  only  of  a  cold-looking,  narrow 
court-yard,  surrounded  by  cloister-like  build- 
ings. Far  away  were  the  suburbs,  the  dyeing- 
house,  and  the  water-bearer.  He  could  have 
wept,  but  his  good  conscience  comforted  him. 
He  did  not  doubt  but  the  mistake  wTould  soon 
be  rectified,  that  had  placed  him  in  this  situa- 
tion. A  very  good  dinner  was  brought  to  him 
of  bread,  meat,  and  vegetables.  He  had  not 
lived  so  well  for  a  long  time.  And,  excepting 
the  view  from  the  window,  and  the  ennui,  he 
fared  better  as  the  king's  prisoner  than  former- 
ly at  his  office. 

In  the  afternoon  he  was  led  to  examination, 
and  placed  in  front  of  a  table  hung  with  black, 
at  which  sat  several  stern-looking  gentlemen  of 
the  upper  police.  After  having  informed  them- 
selves of  his  origin,  name,  age,  residence,  and 
profession,  they  laid  before  him  a  small  publi- 


3onatban  ffrock  159 

cation,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  the  author  of 
it?  He  read  it;  the  contents  were  not  un- 
known to  him,  yet  he  could  answer  immedi- 
ately, and  with  great  self-possession,  that  he 
was  not  the  author — for  he  had  never  had  any 
thing  printed  in  his  life.  When  put  upon  his 
oath,  he  still  insisted  upon  the  same  assertion. 

The  examiner  now  drew  forth  several  written 
sheets  of  paper,  handed  them  to  the  prisoner, 
and  asked  :  "  Do  you  know  this  handwriting?" 
Frock  recognized  it  immediately  ;  it  was  his 
own.  It  was  the  same  paper  that  he  had  once 
been  obliged  to  copy,  containing  a  political 
negotiation  of  Rath  Von  Schwarz's.  Without 
consideration  he  confessed  it  was  his  hand- 
writing ;  he  had  not  composed  the  article,  still 
less  had  it  printed,  but  had  copied  it  for 
money,  when  it  was  brought  to  him  in  the 
way  of  business.  To  the  question,  who  had 
brought  him  the  original  to  copy?  he  answered, 
a  stranger,  whose  figure  and  dress  he  might 
possibly  recognize,  but  whose  name  he  had 
never  heard. 

The  examiners  shook  their  heads.  Frock 
was  on  the  point  of  confessing  that  the  original 
was  the  work  of  Herr  Von  Schwarz.  By  this 
means,  he  would,  perhaps,  at  once  have  been 
relieved  from  all  responsibility.  Nor  had  he 
any  reason  for  sparing  his  former  tormentor, 


160  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

till  he  remembered  his  beloved  pupils.  He  was 
sufficiently  noble-minded  not  to  wish  to  make 
them  unhappy,  by  destroying  their  father, 
whose  conduct  appeared  by  this  negotiation  to 
be  very  reprehensible.  He  was  silent,  there- 
fore, and  was  led  back  to  prison. 

He  was  again  taken  to  examination,  and 
again  to  prison.  The  suspicions  of  the  police 
increased  with  regard  to  him  ;  it  was  supposed 
he  was  the  author,  or  was  well  acquainted 
with  him  ;  for,  out  of  the  many  questions  put 
to  him,  he  had  answered  some  of  them  too 
thoughtlessly,  and  so  had  contradicted  him- 
self. 

He  had  already  been  in  prison  three  weeks 
when  the  guard  once  more  appeared,  not  to 
lead  him  to  examination,  but  to  another  prison, 
where,  in  place  of  his  light  room,  he  was  left  in 
a  dungeon.  It  illy  pleased  him  to  be  put  there, 
on  bare  straw,  bread  and  water,  and  in  a  dim 
twilight.  Still  he  resolved  in  his  heart  not  to 
make  the  Rath  unhappy.  "  For,"  thought  he, 
"if  I  abide  by  my  declaration,  what  can  they 
do  to  me  ?  If  they  hope  to  force  a  confession 
from  me  by  means  of  straw  and  meagre  diet  the 
gentlemen  are  mistaken.  I  shall  keep  to  my 
word.  They  must  finally  set  me  at  liberty  ;  and 
then  I  shall  have  spared  my  darling  pupils 
anxiety  and  bitter  tears." 


5onatban  ffroch  161 

The  next  day  he  was  transferred  from  the 
dungeon  to  an  agreeable,  cheerful,  well-fur- 
nished apartment ;  the  grated  windows,  the 
locks  and  bolts  of  the  thick  door,  alone  re- 
minded him  that  he  was  in  prison.  His  food 
was  more  choice — he  was  even  furnished  with 
wine.  Writing  materials  and  books  were 
allowed  him.  He  was  told  that  all  this  was  by 
the  desire  of  a  noble  person,  who  took  a  lively 
interest  in  his  fate.  The  good  Frock  was  not 
dissatisfied  with  this  sympathy,  though  he  said 
it  did  him  too  much  honor. 

He  considered  it  of  much  more  importance 
when,  being  taken  before  a  commission  of  the 
criminal  court,  he  perceived  Herr  Von  Schwarz 
among  his  judges. 

It  is  probable  that  the  Rath  supposed,  after 
hearing  the  account  of  Frock's  behavior  before 
the  police,  that  he  had  either  not  recognized  or 
had  forgotten  his  handwriting. 

Herr  Von  Schwarz  cast  a  malicious  glance  at 
the  prisoner,  who  now  entered,  and  seemed 
anxious,  from  his  severe  cross-questioning,  to 
make  Frock's  guilt  more  apparent.  The  ac- 
cused observed  with  displeasure  the  insolence 
of  the  man.  He  long  restrained  his  anger. 
But  when,  at  length,  Herr  Von  Schwarz  let  fall 
a  suspicious  word  about  the  gold  snuff-box,  he 
was  no  longer  master  of  himself. 


162  ^scbofcfee's  Gales 

"  From  regard  to  my  former  pupils,  your  two 
sons,  I  have  till  now  been  silent ;  but  your  be- 
havior forces  me  to  make  public  what  no  direct 
question  has  drawn  from  me.  It  is  true  that  I 
am  not  the  author  of  that  negotiation,  which 
contains  offences  against  the  highest  court — 
perhaps  betrays  state  secrets.  It  is  true  I 
neither  know  the  author,  nor  he  who  brought 
it  to  me  to  be  copied.  But  I  knew,  and  still 
know,  the  handwriting  of  him  who  wrote  the 
original.  It  was  the  handwriting  of  Herr  Von 
Schwarz." 

Schwarz  laughed  scornfully,  but  he  could  not 
conceal  a  sudden  confusion,  which  did  not  es- 
cape his  companions  in  office.  In  the  meantime 
the  president  said  to  the  accused  (now  become 
the  accuser),  that  he  had  brought  forward  an 
accusation  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove. 

"It  is  possible,"  returned  Frock,  "that  the 
original  may  have  been  destroyed  so  soon  as 
the  copy  came  into  their  possession.  But  my 
memorandum-book,  which,  wTith  my  other 
papers,  is  in  the  hands  of  the  police,  will  prove 
that  I  very  well  know  Herr  Von  Schwarz' s 
handwriting.  I  remember,  that  in  addition  to 
entering  on  my  books  that  I  had  copied  a  nego- 
tiation without  a  title,  I  noted  on  the  margin, 
'Handwriting  of  H.  V.  S.,'  that  is,  Herr  Von 
Schwarz. ' ' 


5onatban  ffrock  163 


On  a  sign  from  the  president  an  officer 
brought  out  a  box  containing  Frock's  papers. 
He  took  out  the  little  book,  looked  for  the  date, 
found  the  place,  which  appeared  to  have  es- 
caped the  attention  of  the  police,  and  laid  it 
before  the  judge.  It  was  exactly  as  Frock  had 
said.     He  was  taken  back  to  prison. 

The  next  morning,  his  approaching  deliver- 
ance, and  the  immediate  imprisonment  of  Herr 
Von  Schwarz,  were  announced.  For,  through 
the  agency  of  the  police,  from  the  description 
Frock  had  given  of  him,  the  man  who  had 
brought  him  the  negotiation  to  copy  was  appre- 
hended in  a  distant  city,  and  brought  into 
court.  The  testimony  of  this  man  confirmed 
that  of  the  innocent  Frock,  when  they  were 
confronted  and  recognized  each  other. 

The  same  day  Frock  had  a  still  greater  sur- 
prise. He  received  a  visit  from  Major  Von  Tul- 
pen,  accompanied  by  a  stranger.  The  old  major 
was  beside  himself  with  joy  at  seeing  him  again. 
He  pressed  him  with  emotion  to  his  heart. 

"  There  is  good  to  be  found  in  every  thing," 
said  the  major.  "  If  you  had  not  been  impris- 
oned, we  never  in  the  world  would  have  found 
you.  But  your  trial  made  so  much  noise,  that 
we  learned  your  abode." 

"You  do  not  recognize  me,  then?  "  said  the 
major's  companion. 


1 64  %scbokkefs  tTalea 

Frock  looked  at  him  earnestly,  then  bowed 
respectfully,  and  said  : 

"Your  highness  shows  me  undeserved 
honor." 

"Not  such  undeserved  honor.  When  you 
took  me  prisoner  in  a  skirmish  in  the  Nether- 
lands, if  you  had  not  protected  me  so  courage- 
ously from  your  comrades,  I  should  long  since 
have  been  in  the  kingdom  of  the  dead.  You 
saved  my  life  ;  and  in  my  defence  received  that 
wound  on  the  forehead  from  the  foolish  chas- 
seur who  wished  to  cut  me  down  at  all  events." 

"But  how  could  your  highness  know  my 
name?  for  I  never  told  it  to  you." 

"I  learned  it  of  the  major.  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  major  through  the  jeweller 
to  whom  you  sold  the  gold  snuff-box  that  I 
gave  you  as  a  token  of  my  remembrance  on  the 
field  of  battle.  During  my  stay  here  I  wished 
to  buy  several  things  from  the  jeweller,  and  I 
was  much  surprised  to  meet  with  my  snuff-box. 
You  have  sold  it  from  so  noble  a  motive,  that  I 
must  indeed  return  it  to  you,  to  do  honor  to 
your  virtue. ' ' 

The  prince  laid  the  box  upon  the  table  ;  and 
Frock  now  learned  that  he  had  been  formally 
acquitted  by  the  court. 

"Now,  friend  Jonathan  Schopf,"  cried  the 
major,  "we  must  see  each  other  oftener.     You 


Sonatban  afrocfc  165 

will  find  the  name  of  my  place  of  residence 
upon  this  card,  and  you  must  visit  me  as  soon 
as  you  are  at  liberty.  I  thought  you  were  lost 
forever.  May  that  Rath — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? 
— who  is  here  now  in  place  of  you,  go  to  the 
devil !  He  has  got  himself  into  a  bad  box.  He 
wishedto  trick  the  minister  of  justice,  and  so  drew 
attention  upon  himself.  It  serves  him  right. ' ' 

Frock  was  much  comforted  by  this  visit.  It 
renewed  his  confidence  in  mankind;  and  he 
looked  upon  the  past  dangers  and  sufferings  of 
his  imprisonment  as  a  trifling  price  he  had 
paid  for  the  pleasure  of  this  day. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was  in  all  due  form, 
and  with  an  ample  apology  and  declaration  of 
innocence,  released  from  prison.  The  court  also 
adjudged  to  him  a  handsome  sum,  partly  as  in- 
demnification for  his  suffering,  partly  as  a  com- 
pensation for  the  interruption  of  his  business 
during  the  time  of  his  imprisonment.  It  was  a 
long  time  since  Frock  had  been  so  rich.  The 
snuff-box  of  the  prince  (who  had  the  same  day 
left  the  residence)  was  also  filled  with  gold  pieces. 

When  Frock  once  more  entered  his  little 
room  at  the  old  widow's,  he  could  have  wept 
for  joy,  and  wished  to  kiss  the  tables  and  chairs, 
as  old  friends  re-found.  But  his  first  proceed- 
ing was  to  go  to  the  window  with  his  telescope. 


1 66  ^scbofcfee's  Gales 

He  looked  with  delight  at  the  three  trees,  and 
at  the  lines  upon  which  the  clothes  were  blow- 
ing, like  colors  and  banners  hung  out  by  Love 
to  greet  him  ;  but,  alas !  the  dyer's  lovely 
daughter,  with  her  Berenice-like  curls,  did  not 
come  to  welcome  him. 

Upon  the  whole,  Frock  was  a  singular  person. 
With  a  heart  full  of  virtue,  and  in  consequence 
capable  of  feeling  the  tenderest  friendship,  he 
remained  estranged  from  men,  and  preferred 
perspective  views,  clothes-lines,  tables,  and 
chairs,  to  their  society.  He  certainly  had  his 
reasons,  which  we  must  respect  in  silence. 
The  good-will  and  gratitude  of  the  prince  af- 
fected him  very  much  ;  yet  it  never  occurred 
to  draw  a  straw's  breadth  nearer  him.  The 
prince  had  even  invited  him  to  visit  him, 
promising  him  a  situation  in  his  school  estab- 
lishment ;  and  Frock,  who  was  without  a 
maintenance,  had  merely  bowed  and  silently 
refused  it.  The  old  Major  Von  Tulpen  had 
begged  him,  in  a  very  cordial  manner,  to  be- 
come an  inmate  at  his  house ;  but  Frock  had 
never  been  there.  And  yet  he  was  far  from 
being  shy,  nor  was  it  business  that  kept  him  at 
home ;  for  though,  immediately  on  his  release 
from  prison  he  had  hung  his  sign  on  the  out- 
side of  the  widow's  door,  no  one  came  to  require 
his  services  in  writing. 


5onatban  dfrocfc  167 

At  last,  one  evening,  the  major  himself  ap- 
peared and  said  : 

"  I  might  have  waited  till  the  day  of  judg- 
ment, Jonathan  Rok,  or  Farrok,  before  you 
came  to  see  me  !  You  must  now  come  with  me, 
that  you  may  know  how  to  find  my  house. 
To-day  is  my  birthday.  My  cellar  is  full  of 
Pontac,  Burgundy,  and  Champagne,  with  which 
the  Prince  of — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? — has  en- 
riched rne,  merely  for  taking  him  to  the 
jeweller's  and  to  you,  and  for  the  story  about 
the  snuff-box,  which  I  have  told  often  enough 
without  having  been  paid  for  it." 

Frock  could  not  resist.  They  got  into  a 
hackney-coach,  as  it  was  very  dark,  and  drove 
off.  Trie  major  was  excessively  gay  and  talka- 
tive. But  just  as  they  reached  the  house,  he 
began  to  swear,  and  exclaimed  : 

"What  a  stupid  fellow  !  I  have  passed  the 
recorder's  office,  though  I  told  him  I  should 
stop  to  take  him  home  to  supper.  He  is  an 
excellent  young  man  ;  it  will  please  you,  Jona- 
than, to  become  acquainted  with  him.  I  will 
set  you  down  first,  and  then  turn  back  for  him." 

The  carriage  stopped.  Frock  was  obliged  to 
jump  out  and  go  into  the  house.  "  The  room 
on  the  right,"  cried  the  major,  and  drove  off. 

Frock  groped  his  way  through  the  hall,  in  the 
dark ;   found  the   door,  knocked,  was    told  to 


i68  ^scbofcfce'g  Gales 

come  in  ;  saw  a  table  set  out,  bright  candles 
were  burning  on  it,  and  at  the  same  moment  his 
eyes  became  blinded,  for  the  wTell-known  dyer's 
daughter  stood  living  before  him. 

"I  fear  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  stammered 
he  ;  "I  thought  this  was  Major  Von  Tulpen's." 

"  This  is  the  right  place  ;  my  father  will  soon 
be  here,  if  you  can  wait  a  short  time,"  said  she, 
and  offered  him  a  chair. 

A  young  girl,  about  ten  years  old,  came  for- 
ward, and  after  looking  at  the  stranger  for  a 
moment,  said  timidly,  and  with  a  pleasant  smile  : 

"  Am  I  not  right  ?  Are  you  not  the  gentleman 
who  gave  away  a  gold  snuff-box  for  my  father  ?  " 

"Not  gave  away,  for  I  have  it  again,"  said 
Frock,  who  had  not  recovered  from  his  first 
surprise. 

He  became  still  more  embarrassed,  when  the 
golden-haired  one  laid  her  beautiful  hand  on  his 
arm  and  said  : 

"Ah!  how  much  we  are  indebted  to  you. 
The  snuff-box  must  have  become  a  holy  thing  to 
you,  since  it  reminds  you  of  two  men  whom  you 
have  saved." 

"Did  you  grow  so  pale  in  prison  ?  "  asked  the 
little  girl,  looking  at  him  compassionately.  "  I 
have  prayed  for  you  very  often,  and  that  must 
have  done  you  good." 

Frock  found  that  he  was  much  better  known 


^onatban  tfrocfc  i6g 

here  than  he  had  supposed  ;  and  to  turn  the 
conversation  from  the  subject  of  gratitude,  he 
related  the  pleasures  of  his  prison  life. 

Both  the  sisters  thought  it  surprising  that  he 
should  have  endured  the  loss  of  his  freedom  so 
quietly,  and  even  have  found  something  agreea- 
ble in  his  imprisonment. 

"  I  should  fret  myself  to  death  if  I  were  in 
prison,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  and  were  obliged 
to  live  by  myself,  away  from  Josephine  and  my 
father." 

"  I  can  easily  believe  that"  said  Frock  ;  "but 
if  one  has  no  Josephine  and  no  father  to  fret 
after,  then,  with  a  pure  heart,  one  is  well  every- 
where. To  a  man  who,  in  time  of  need,  is 
sufficient  for  himself,  the  smallest  room  is  a 
great  world  ;  and  he  who  is  not  sufficient  for 
himself,  but  depends  upon  society  for  his 
happiness,  even  in  the  greatest  extent  of  the 
universe,  lives  immured  in  a  dungeon." 

"  But  to  be  alone  the  livelong  day  !  "  answered 
the  little  girl  with  a  sigh. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  was  alone  ?  Was 
not  my  whole  past  life  before  me  ?  And  was  not 
He  with  me,  who  is  more  than  all  society  ?  Do 
you  know  who  ?     God  ! ' ' 

The  conversation  now  took  a  more  serious 
turn  ;  Josephine,  leaning  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
listened  in  silence. 


170  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

Her  little  sister  Leonore  had  always  a  hundred 
questions  to  ask,  and  a  hundred  replies  to  make. 

The  major  now  came  in,  and  with  him  a  very 
handsome  young  man,  the  Recorder  Bukhardt. 
He  appeared  very  much  at  home  in  the  family, 
and  intimate  with  the  young  ladies. 

Frock,  before  this,  had  made  much  progress 
in  their  acquaintance,  but  the  more  at  ease 
Bukhardt  appeared,  the  more  reserved  Frock 
became.  The  major  presented  the  "worthy" 
recorder  to  him,  and  the  conversation  became 
more  general.  The  major's  daughters  now  left 
the  room  to  bring  in  the  simple  supper.  They 
sat  down.  The  recorder  placed  himself  next  to 
Josephine  and  paid  her  the  greatest  attention. 
Frock  was  opposite  to  them,  beside  the  chatter- 
ing little  Leonore,  and  in  the  disposing  of  his 
hands  and  feet,  sometimes  even  of  his  eyes, 
seemed  much  embarrassed.  The  golden-haired 
Josephine  was,  indeed,  (as  she  sat  shaded  from 
the  light,  and  when  she  now  and  then  bent 
forward  her  lovely  head)  surprisingly  beauti- 
ful. The  surprise,  certainly,  was  only  on 
Frock's  side,  for  neither  the  major  nor  Leonore 
appeared  to  look  upon  it  as  any  thing  wonderful : 
perhaps  the  "  worthy  "  recorder  did. 

Fortunately,  the  major  passed  round  the 
Burgundy,  and  shortly  after  the  sparkling 
Champagne.  This  excited  our  pale  philosopher, 


3-onatban  tfrocfc  171 

till  he  was  in  the  same  state  of  innocent  gayety 
that  the  others  were.  He  now  became  talkative 
and  agreeable.  The  lively  chatterer  Iyeonore, 
busied  herself  in  kind  attentions  to  him.  She 
listened  eagerly  to  whatever  he  chose  to  say, 
and  when  he  corrected  her  in  some  fault  of 
arithmetic,  she  seized  the  opportunity  of  begging 
him  to  become  her  instructor.  She  promised, 
out  of  pure  gratitude,  to  replace  the  loss  of  his 
former  pupils,  in  the  Schwarzischen  house,  of 
whom  he  had  spoken  with  so  much  affection. 

"  For,"  said  she,  "  they  were  boys,  who 
forget  one  immediately,  and  are  so  wild  and 
volatile." 

Frock  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  a 
promise,  to  devote  two  hours  to  her  every 
vSunday  and  Wednesday.  The  major  shook  his 
hand  warmly. 

"  You  are  doing  me  a  great  favor,"  said  he. 
"I  have  nothing,  or  I  should  certainly  have 
sent  her  to  school.  The  vain  little  boaster  must 
sit  still  and  learn." 

Frock  did  not  know  what  a  charge  he  had 
undertaken.  He  repented  it  the  day  following 
however,  and  still  more  the  promise  he  had 
given  to  dine  that  day  (it  was  Sunday)  with  the 
Tulpenschen  family. 

As  he  did  not  return  home  till  very  late,  he 


172  Zscbofcfce's  Gales 

slept  long.  The  ringing  of  the  church  bells 
from  all  the  steeples,  far  and  near,  at  last 
awakened  him.  While  dressing  himself  he 
thought  over  the  preceding  day  ;  then  his  first 
step  was  to  the  telescope  and  the  window.  But 
as  he  was  raising  the  telescope  to  his  eye,  he 
laid  it  quickly  down,  shut  the  window,  and  did 
not  look  out  again  the  whole  morning,  but 
walked  up  and  down  his  room,  singing  and 
whistling.  About  noon,  he  wrote  the  major  a 
note,  telling  him  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
him  to  dine  with  him,  as  he  was  not  well,  sealed 
it,  and  then  remembered,  as  he  had  no  messen- 
ger, he  would  be  obliged  to  take  it  himself 
Then  it  was  very  late  and  would  be  impolite  to 
keep  them  waiting.  He  tore  up  the  note,  and 
went  to  the  major's,  repenting  at  every  step 
what  he  was  doing,  and  what  he  had  already 
done. 

They  received  him  in  the  same  kind  uncon- 
strained manner,  and  he  felt  himself  much  more 
at  ease  with  these  friendly  people  than  he  had 
the  day  before.  They  all  seemed  very  serious, 
not  excepting  the  little  Leonore. 

The  good  people  had  just  come  from  church, 
and  the  worship  of  God  had  left  in  their  souls  a 
gentle  gravity  which  tempered,  and  even  enno- 
bled, their  usual  cheerfulness. 

"Have  you  been  to  church  ?  "  asked  Leonore. 


3onatban  3frock  173 

"  Not  to-day,"  answered  Frock. 

"If  I  do  not  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  the 
whole  week  seems  dull  and  uninteresting.  Sun- 
day, among  all  other  days,  is  like  the  sun,  which 
gives  light  to  the  rest.  I  can  easily  understand 
how  men  commit  great  crimes  where  they  have 
no  Sundays." 

"But  do  you  not  think  there  maybe  good 
men  who  have  no  Sunday?" 

' '  Yes,  there  may  be  some  ;  but  their  exist- 
ence is  very  tame,  and  they  can  have  nothing 
to  comfort  them.  Their  sense  teaches  them  to 
be  good,  but  it  does  not  proceed  from  the  most 
beautiful.''' 

"  What  do  you  call  the  most  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  most  beautiful  is — the  most  beau- 
tiful. You  know  better  than  I  do.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful  when  in  church  I  listen  and 
pray,  and  am  at  peace  with  God,  and  think  of 
all  that  is  without  and  within.  It  passes  away ; 
and  I  know  besides,  that  the  Best  remains  in 
imperishably  great  majesty.  All  the  beloved 
dead  are  once  more  around  me — my  mother, 
my  grandfather,  and  the  many  heroes  my  fa- 
ther talks  about.  Jesus  Christ,  and  many  holy 
souls  live  more  blessedly  than  I,  and  yet  live 
with  me,  and  love  me  as  I  love  them.  That  is 
the  most  beautiful.  Then  I  hear  the  whisper- 
ing of  praying   hearts,    and  the   holy  organ's 


174  ^scbofcfce's  Cales 

sound,  and  the  voice  of  the  preacher,  and  yet 
do  not  hear  it ;  still  every  thing  speaks  within 
me,  and  I  understand,  though  I  can  see  noth- 
ing." 

Frock  smiled.  He  gazed  on  Leonore's  ex- 
pressive countenance,  who  spoke  with  great 
enthusiasm.  Then  he  bent  over  the  young  girl 
and  kissed  her  beautiful  forehead,  without  say- 
ing a  word. 

"The  little  girl  prattles  like  a  starling!" 
cried  the  major  ;  "  she  often  chatters  of  things 
by  heart,  which  I  feel,  and  yet  can  never  ex- 
press." 

After  dinner  a  walk  was  proposed.  They 
went  to  the  Lilienthal,  a  neighboring  wood 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from  the 
suburbs.  In  the  middle  of  the  wood,  between 
meadows  and  gardens,  was  an  inn,  to  which 
the  inhabitants  of  the  city  resorted  to  amuse 
themselves.  Frock  gave  an  arm  to  each  of  the 
sisters,  and  the  major  went  chattering  by  their 
side.  Josephine  displayed  quite  as  much  spirit 
and  feeling  in  her  conversation  as  she  was 
beautiful. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  magnificent  day  !  "  cried  Le- 
onore,  hopping  about  with  joy  ;  "I  am  really  in 
heaven  to-day  !  I  am  in  heaven  ;  and  if  you 
had  been  to  church,  you  would  be  in  heaven, 
too,  Herr  Frock  !  " 


5-onatban  tfrocfc  175 

"  But  if  I  were  to  tell  you,  good  Leonore, 
that  I  am  really  in  heaven  at  this   moment." 

"No;  you  are  only  walking;  but  I  am  in 
heaven.  Do  you  not  see  that  all  the  flowers  are 
more  gayly  colored,  and  look  quiet  and  heav- 
enly ;  and  the  foliage  on  the  trees  is  transpar- 
ent, as  if  it  were  a  green  flame,  and  the  sky  has 
another  dress,  and  the  sun  another  brightness. 
Every  thing  has  a  different  air,  and  denotes 
something  festive  ;  I  do  not  entirely  compre- 
hend it,  but  I  shall  certainly  know  how  to 
study  it." 

Frock  was  in  heaven,  in  spite  of  what  Leon- 
ore  might  say  to  the  contrary.  The  whole  world 
looked  brighter  to  him  with  Josephine  on  his 
arm.  He  gladly  listened  to  Leonore's  talking, 
that  he  might  be  silent.  For  speaking  was  a 
burden,  because  he  was  oppressed  with  feelings 
which  he  could  not  explain  to  himself. 

Several  acquaintances  of  the  major's  were  in 
Lilienthal,  and  some  of  Josephine's  and  Leon- 
ore's,  who  attached  themselves  to  the  party. 
Frock,  as  a  stranger,  drew  back.  He  went  in 
search  of  plants  among  the  bushes.  After  about 
an  hour  the  major  observed  his  absence  ;  they 
waited  for  him,  talking  one  to  another.  When 
it  was  time  to  break  up  and  think  of  going 
home,  Frock  had  not  yet  returned.  Leonore 
ran  away  into  the  wood  to  seek  him.     The  ma- 


176  %scbokkefs  Gates 

jor  swore,  and  took  another  path  for  the  same 
purpose.  Josephine  remembered  the  direction 
Frock  had  taken  through  the  bushes,  and  fol- 
lowed that,  and  it  was  she  who  found  him,  ly- 
ing on  the  grass  under  an  oak,  with  his  face 
hidden  in  his  folded  hands.  She  thought  he 
was  asleep,  and  called  his  name  in  a  low  voice. 
He  instantly  jumped  up,  his  face  agitated,  and 
deadly  pale  ;  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  then 
forcing  a  polite  smile,  begged  pardon  for  hav- 
ing left  the  company,  and  was  much  surprised 
when  he  heard  it  was  time  to  return  home.  He 
accompanied  her,  silent  and  embarrassed. 

"You  look  very  badly,"  said  Josephine; 
"perhaps  you  are  not -well?" 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  he;  "I  feel  much 
stronger  now." 

The  others  came  up,  and  were  frightened  at 
his  appearance. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you,  friend  Jona- 
than ?  "  asked  Major  Van  Tulpen,  in  a  faint 
voice.  "You  have  cried  your  eyes  red,  and 
now  they  look  glassy." 

Frock  smiled,  passed  his  hand  over  his  face, 
and  said  : 

"  Thoughts  sometimes  come  over  me  !  " 

No  one  urged  him  further.  Neither  did  any 
one  question  him  when  the  next  day,  in  the 
middle  of  the  conversation,  he  was  silent,  or  was 


Sonatban  tfrocfc  177 

sad  in  the  midst  of  general  gayety,  or  colored  at 
indifferent  words.  Every  one  respected  his  secret. 
Even  in  the  Tulpenschen  family,  it  was  long  be- 
fore they  talked  on  the  subject  in  his  absence. 

Frock  came  regularly  on  Sundays  and  Wed- 
nesdays to  teach  Leonore.  He  did  not  only 
teach  her  figures  ;  he  related  the  principal 
events  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  ex- 
plained many  phenomena  of  nature.  He  spoke 
with  great  clearness  and  precision,  but  never 
with  greater  wTarmth  than  when  he  made  a 
transition  from  the  earthly  to  the  spiritual,  and 
lost  himself  in  religious  thoughts.  This  often 
happened  ;  he  seemed  to  need  it.  Josephine 
always  contrived  to  have  her  out-of-door  work 
finished  when  Frock  came.  Then  she  took  her 
knitting,  and  sat  down  in  her  corner  by  the 
window.  Frock,  who  had  at  first  appeared  to 
her  as  an  estimable  man,  on  account  of  what 
he  had  done  for  her  father,  now,  by  the  charm 
of  his  conversation,  and  the  elevation  of  his 
sentiments,  caused  her  to  forget  the  faults  of 
his  appearance  ;  that  is,  his  pale  face  and  curl- 
ing black  hair.  She  felt  very  kindly  toward 
him,  and  a  hearty  compassion  when,  without 
apparent  cause,  he  was  sad. 

' '  He  conceals  a  great  sorrow  within  his  bo- 
som," said  Josephine  often  to  Leonore,  who 
had  asked  her  about  it.     ' '  Respect  his  secret ; 


i73  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

he  was  looked  upon  as  a  penitent  criminal  in 
the  Schwarzischen  house,  but  I  believe  his  sor- 
row proceeds  from  a  noble  cause." 

Herr  Von  Tulpen  and  his  daughters  lived  in 
a  very  simple  and  retired  manner,  in  a  small 
house  in  the  suburbs.  Josephine,  assisted  by 
her  younger  sister,  took  charge  of  the  little 
household  ;  and,  indeed,  made  something  out 
of  nothing.  She  was  the  cook,  the  gardener, 
the  washerwoman,  the  tailoress  of  the  house — 
all  in  all.  The  major,  her  father,  had  few 
wants,  but  he  knew  not  how  to  take  care  of 
money.  He,  therefore,  resigned  his  narrow 
income  to  Josephine,  who  knew  how  to  meet 
every  thing  with  it.  She  was  a  complete  mis- 
tress of  housekeeping,  and  under  her  manage- 
ment there  was  neither  superfluity  nor  want. 
There  was  no  extravagance  in  the  house,  but 
neatness,  taste,  and  cleanliness  reigned.  She 
and  her  sister  dressed  very  plainly,  but  she 
well  knew  what  color  and  fashion,  and  what 
sort  of  ornaments  became  her  ;  therefore,  the 
major  was  thought  much  richer  than  he  was. 
Josephine  had  many  admirers  in  the  city,  and 
many  suitors  among  the  nobility.  She  was  like 
a  fresh,  blooming  lily,  at  once  dignified  and 
humble,  and  at  eighteen  years  of  age  united  the 
good  qualities  of  the  mother  of  a  family  and 


5onatban  tfrocfc  179 

the  savoir  /aire  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  to 
that  innocence  which  is  peculiar  to  childhood. 
Taking  charge  of  the  house  early  in  life  had 
given  her  a  certain  independence  of  character, 
which  she  could  not  conceal,  and  which  in- 
spired all  who  approached  her  with  involuntary 
respect. 

A  young  count,  of  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
families  of  the  kingdom,  had  already  sought 
her  hand.  Since  then,  the  Recorder  Bukhardt 
had  become  a  friend  of  her  father's,  and  often 
came  to  the  house.  He  loved  Josephine  pas- 
sionately, but  was  careful  not  to  awaken  any 
suspicions  in  her  mind.  She  treated  him  with 
a  want  of  constraint,  which  let  him  understand 
that,  though  his  friendship  was  prized,  he  would 
not  be  allowed  to  approach  a  step  nearer  to 
a  greater  intimacy. 

Bukhardt  and  Frock  often  met  in  this  house. 
The  former  not  without  a  feeling  of  vanity  (for 
he  was  certainly  a  very  handsome  man),  pa- 
tiently endured  these  frequent  meetings  with 
the  moodish,  timid  Frock  ;  who,  after  a  lapse 
of  more  than  half  a  year,  was  as  retiring  and  as 
little  at  home  as  he  had  been  the  first  da}-.  But 
Frock  did  not  seem  to  be  less  esteemed  than 
the  handsome  Bukhardt.  Josephine  treated 
him  with  as  much  kindness  as  the  other,  even 
(one   might   say)  with  that   tenderness  which 


i so  ^scbokfce'a  £ale$ 

compassion  toward  a  sufferer  may  be  supposed 
to  dictate.  Leon  ore,  too,  ouce  remarked  to  her 
sister  :  "  Bukhardt  is  handsome  ;  Frock,  with 
his  moonlight  face,  is  not  at  all  so  ;  but,  Jose- 
phine, when  Frock  speaks,  there  is  something 
more  beautiful  in  his  eyes  than  Bukhardt  has. 
There  is  something  very  lovely  in  Frock's  eyes, 
in  his  smile,  in  his  seriousness  ;  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it.  Bukhardt's  beauty  appears  to  me  like 
splendid  levantine,  not  transparent ;  Frock's 
appearance  is  like  thin  gauze,  through  which 
shines  something  glorious  that  I  love  and  can- 
not explain." 

About  half  a  year  after  this,  Bukhardt  was 
called  to  the  chancellorship,  with  a  considera- 
ble salary*.  There  was  great  rejoicing  in  the 
Tulpenschen  family  ;  still  greater,  when  one 
day  he  brought  them  the  news  that,  through 
his  recommendation  and  influence,  he  had  been 
enabled  to  gain  the  majority  of  votes,  and  even 
the  approbation  of  the  minister,  in  favor  of 
bestowing  the  recorder's  place  on  the  good 
Frock.  Provided  for  during  his  lifetime,  Frock 
now  could  live  more  happily.  He  had  only  to 
present  himself  to  the  minister,  and  to  the 
other  judges,  who,  from  Bukhardt's  representa- 
tions, looked  upon  him  as  the  man,  from  ac- 
quirements, talent,  and  honesty,  best  fitted  for 
the  situation.     The  major  was  moved  to  tears 


3-onatban  frock  181 

at  the  joy  of  beholding  his  dear  Jonathan  taken 
care  of  and  invested  with  an  office.  He  fell  on 
the  chancellor's  neck,  and  said  :  "  Thank  3  ou, 
dear  friend  !  If  I  had  become  governor  of  the 
city,  it  would  not  have  delighted  me  so  much." 
Both  the  young  girls,  too,  in  the  fulness  of  their 
hearts,  could  have  embraced  the  good  chancellor. 
It  was  Wednesday,  and  Bukhardt  well  knew 
that  Frock  would  come  on  that  day.  They  we^ 
just  consulting  in  what  way  they  should  most 
agreeably  surprise  him  with  the  news,  when  he 
came  in  to  teach  Leonore.  They  all  gayly  sur- 
rounded him  ;  every  one  announced  the  news 
to  him,  every  one  wished  him  joy.  Gratitude 
and  astonishment  were  depicted  on  his  counte- 
nance ;  he  thanked  the  chancellor  for  his  kind- 
ness, the  others  for  their  interest ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  joy  which  beamed  from  his  counte- 
nance, a  melancholy  expression  stole  over  it. 
He  declared  he  could  not  accept  the  office  from 
want  of  the  requisite  knowledge  and  capability ; 
and  wheu  this  was  contradicted  by  every  one, 
he  said  he  felt  no  inward  inclination  for  such 
employment.  They  now  brought  forward  such 
powerful  arguments  in  the  uncertainty  of  his 
profession,  that  nothing  now  remained  for  him 
to  do  but  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  say  :  "He 
could  not  sue  for  the  office ;  more  important 
reasons,  which  he  could  not  give,  prevented  him. ' ' 


i82  ^scbokfce'6  £ales 

None  asked  further,  and  a  sorrowful  silence 
ensued.  Frock  continued  Leonore's  lesson  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  The  chancellor  took 
his  leave.  The  major  threw  himself  into  an 
armchair  to  smoke  his  pipe.  Josephine  took 
her  seat  at  the  window,  sewing  and  listen- 
ing. 

The  subject  was  not  again  mentioned;  but 
from  that  day  they  drew  more  closely  to  the 
mysterious  sufferer,  who,  without  means  of  a 
livelihood,  rejected  a  profitable  situation,  and 
passed  his  life  in  a  business  which  he  often  said 
was  as  tedious  and  laborious  to  him  as  splitting 
wood.  They  endeavored,  by  showing  a  more 
tender  interest,  to  make  up  to  him  for  the 
secret  sorrow  which  was  tormenting  him. 
Even  the  reserved  Josephine  approached  him 
in  a  sisterly  manner ;  but  he  remained  always 
the  same,  as  kind  and  distant  toward  the  beau- 
tiful young  girl  as  toward  the  major. 

It  was  different  with  Bukhardt.  He  had 
opportunity  enough  to  perceive,  from  a  thou- 
sand trifles,  that  all  were  more  attached  to  the 
silent  Frock  than  to  him  ;  but  now,  inspired  by 
more  daring  hopes,  from  his  position  and  rich 
salary,  and  trusting  to  the  poverty  of  the  major, 
he  resolved  to  ask  for  Josephine's  hand.  He 
first  spoke  to  the  major,  who  listened  to  him 
with  delight. 


5onatban  tfrocfe  183 

"Very  good.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor, 
if  the  girl  is  willing,  you  shall  have  her.  You 
are  a  worthy  man,  that  I  always  say.  Begin 
cautiously  with  Josephine— she  has  her  peculi- 
arities. If  you  can  win  her  heart,  you  have 
gained  every  thing  ;  but  to  offer  yourself  now, 
would  be  to  spoil  all.  I  will  say  nothing  to  her 
of  what  you  have  confided  to  me." 

Bukhardt  now  ventured  to  pay  the  maiden 
greater  attention  ;  but  for  some  time  past 
Josephine  had  been  colder  in  her  manner  tow- 
ard him  than  formerly.  It  was  not  to  be  ac- 
counted for.  Bukhardt  complained  of  it  to  the 
major,  who  for  a  moment  seemed  embarrassed  ; 
then  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  (for 
the  conversation  had  taken  place  in  the  garden 
behind  the  house)  to  his  daughter's  room,  and 
said  : 

"Josephine,  I  have  not  said  a  word  to  the 
chancellor,  but  do  you  tell  him  yourself.  If  he 
has  done  it,  he  has  not  meant  it  ill  ;  so  you 
must  not  feel  any  thing  against  him.  Take  him 
to  the  wardrobe,  and  put  an  end  to  the 
thing." 

The  girl  colored  very  much,  and  did  not  seem 
pleased  with  her  father's  request ;  but  she 
obeyed.  She  went  with  the  chancellor  into  the 
next  room,  threw  open  a  wardrobe,  and  said, 
after  showing  him   several  pieces  of  linen,  of 


184  %schokke's  Gales 

India  muslin,  and  of  satin,  and  a  letter  directed 
to  her  father,  inclosing  thirty  Louis  d'or  : 

' '  I  must  beg  you  to  take  back  these  presents 
which  you  have  sent  each  of  us  on  our  birth- 
days, through  the  post-office.  I  honor  the 
delicacy  which  led  you  to  send  them  anony- 
mously, and  the  friendship  which  prompted 
your  sending  such  valuable  presents.  We  do 
not  wish,  however,  to  accept  them,  as  it  is  not 
in  our  power  to  make  any  return." 

Bukhardt  looked  with  astonishment  at  the 
precious  contents  of  the  wardrobe,  as  he  listened 
to  Josephine's  words. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  mistress,"  said  he  at 
length,  "upon  the  word  of  an  honest  man,  that 
I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  have  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  You  suspect  me  without  reason." 

"  Herr  Chancellor,"  answered  Josephine,  re- 
garding him  with  a  grave  and  sorrowful  expres- 
sion and  blushing  cheeks,  "I  can  look  upon 
you  as  our  frieud,  but  not  as  our  benefactor.  I 
implore  you,  if  you  wish  to  preserve  the  same 
intimacy  with  us,  take  the  things  back.  Noth- 
ing has  been  disturbed,  or  will  ever  be  touched 
by  us.  No  one  else  but  you  could  have  sent 
them :  for  no  one  but  you  knew  our  birthdays, 
and  the  time  when  my  father  was  distressed  for 
want  of  money." 

with  even  more 


Sonatban  tfrocfc  185 

earnestness.  Josephine  was  much  puzzled,  but 
she  was  convinced  there  was  nothing  else  for 
him  to  say.  They  left  the  room,  and  the  girl's 
manner  remained  the  same. 

Josephine  had  guessed,  that  if  it  were  not  the 
chancellor,  that  her  admirer,  the  count,  had 
perhaps  hoped  to  ingratiate  himself  by  sending 
the  presents.  Frock  was  not  suspected  until 
Bukhardt  had  cleared  himself ;  then  she  began 
to  think  that,  perhaps,  Frock  might  be  the 
donor.  She  observed  him  closely,  and  one  day, 
when  he  had  finished  L,eonore's  lesson,  he  was 
obliged  to  follow  Josephine  into  the  next  room. 

Opening  the  door  of  the  wardrobe,  she  dis- 
played the  contents,  and  said :  "  For  some 
months  past,  Herr  Frock,  presents  have  come 
to  my  father,  for  him,  and  for  us,  his  children, 
we  know  not  from  whom.  They  remain  un- 
touched. I  suspected  the  chancellor ;  he  denies 
it.  I  should  be  sorry  to  offend  the  excellent 
man  without  a  cause.  Pray,  assist  me  in  dis- 
covering who  sent  them,  and  will  force  himself 
upon  us  as  our  benefactor." 

Frock  changed  color  and  stood  with  downcast 
eyes  beside  her. 

"You  speak  rather  severely,  my  dear  lady. 
How  do  you  know  whether  he  who  sent  these 
things  wished  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  defrayer 
of  a  debt  or  as  a  benefactor  ?     If  he  be  a  debtor, 


186  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

I  do  not  know  why  you  refuse  to  accept  the 
payment.  You  have  the  right  to  be  too  proud 
to  accept  either  charity  or  favors." 

"Dear  Frock,"  said  Josephine,  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  searching  glance,  "  was  it  really  you  ? 
Tell  me  honestly " 

"Condemn  me,  Miss.  Yes,  it  was  I.  I  have 
been  much  to  blame  that  I  set  out  so  awkward- 
ly, and  troubled  you  with  trifles,  that  I  might 
spare  myself  embarrassment.  Will  you  now 
return  every  thing  ? ' '  asked  he,  in  a  low,  im- 
ploring tone  of  voice. 

"No!  now  I  will  keep  every  thing — every 
thing!"  said  Josephine,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  and  pressing  both  hands  in  grateful 
acknowledgment  upon  his  arm. 

"  It  can  give  you  no  pleasure  to  be  our  bene- 
factor ;  you  are  our  friend.  Is  it  not  so  ?  But 
promise  to  make  us  no  more  presents  like  these. 
You  are  too  extravagant." 

When  they  returned  to  the  room,  Leonore 
observed  with  surprise  that  her  sister  had  been 
weeping.  At  the  same  moment  the  major  came 
in. 

"What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked  astonished. 

Josephine  kissed  her  father,  and  said  : 

"  Let  us  thank  the  good  Frock  ;  he  has  pre- 
sented us  with  the  costly  things  in  the  wardrobe. 
We  will  now  wear  them  in  honor  of  our  friend." 


3-onatban  fivoch  187 

"  Oh  !  my  dear,  dear  Herr  Frock  !  "  said  Leo- 
nore,  delighted,  and  overwhelming  him  with 
caresses,  "that  India  muslin  on  my  last  birth- 
day was  entirely  too  beautiful  !  " 

After  this  explanation,  the  old  footing  was  re- 
established between  the  maiden  and  Bukhardt. 
Josephine  was  even  kinder  than  before,  as  she 
felt  she  had  done  him  injustice.  Though  Buk- 
hardt felt  happy  at  this  change,  still  it  was 
unaccountable  to  him  that  the  ladies  had  so 
willingly  accepted  from  poor  Frock  what  they 
had  refused  to  take  from  him.  They  worked  at 
the  linen  with  great  delight,  and  during  the 
time  they  were  making  the  new  dresses  Frock's 
name  was  incessantly  mentioned.  Budhardt 
said  one  day  to  Josephine  : 

"You  accepted  from  Herr  Frock  the  gifts 
you  despised  as  coming  from  me.  I  scarcely 
dare  to  offer  you  any  thing  for  fear  of  offending 
you  ;  for  it  would  give  me  pain  if  you  were  to 
send  it  back  to  me." 

"Not  so,  Herr  Chancellor;  I  like  you  as 
much  as  the  good  Frock.  If  you  offer  any 
thing,  you  will  see  that  I  will  not  refuse  it ; 
but  it  must  not  be  too  much.  For  instance, 
the  carnation  you  have  in  your  button-hole." 

"  Can  I  not  present  you  with  any  thing  better 
worth  having,  my  dear  lady?  " 


^scbokfce's  Gales 


' '  Not  too  much. ' ' 

Bukhardt  leaned  over  her  chair,  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Take  all  that  I  have,  and  am,  and  myself 
too." 

Josephine  drew  back,  blushing,  and  said  : 

"  Herr  Chancellor,  that  is  too  much  !  " 

He  spoke  more  openly,  more  urgently  ;  there- 
upon the  major  came  in  and  added  his  influ- 
ence. Josephine,  pressed  on  all  sides,  said  in 
a  solemn  voice  : 

"I  feel  myself  honored  by  your  friendship, 
Herr  Chancellor  ;  but  I  beg  you  to  ask  fornoth- 
ing  more.  It  would  disturb  our  peaceful,  con- 
tented state  ;  but  let  it  be  as  if  nothing  had 
been  said." 

Josephine  could  do  so  very  well,  but  not  the 
disappointed  chancellor.  From  that  day  he 
avoided  the  house,  where  he  had  lost  the  fair- 
est hopes  of  his  life.  In  about  three  months 
they  heard  that  he  was  married.  The  major 
said,  with  a  dissatisfied  look  at  Josephine  : 

"  The  poor  fellow  has  done  it  in  a  fit  of 
desperation." 

Though  Frock  was  now  the  only  intimate 
friend,  he  came  no  oftener  to  the  house  than 
regularly  every  Sunday  and  Wednesday,  or, 
perhaps,  when  he  was  invited.  Neither  did  he 
change    his   manners,  which  seemed  to  shun 


5onatban  tfrocfc  189 

closer  intimacy.  With  his  little  scholar  I,eo- 
nore,  he  was  more  unreserved  ;  but  Leonore 
clung  to  him  with  all  the  tenderness  and  idol- 
izing affection  of  which  a  girl  of  twelve  years 
is  capable.  For  him  she  cultivated  flowers  ;  for 
him  she  prepared  little  surprises  ;  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  impatience  when  he  came 
half  an  hour  after  his  time  :  it  was  he,  too,  of 
wrhom  she  dreamed.  Wednesdays  and  Sundays 
were  her  festival  days. 

"  Herr  Frock,  dear  Herr  Frock,"  she  said  one 
day,  "you  are  very  good,  but  Josephine  says 
you  are  not  happy.  And  you  are  not  happy. 
Tell  me,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  happier  than  I  deserve  to  be." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Certainly,  Miss." 

"  Look  me  straight  in  the  face,  Herr  Frock. 
Ah  !  there  is  something  very  sad  here.  Now, 
be  very  quiet.  I  wish  to  ask  you  something 
very  serious  :  Why  do  you  never  go  to 
church  ? ' ' 

"How  is  that  connected  with  my  happiness?  " 

' '  Do  you  ask  that  question  ?  Have  you  not 
yourself  said  more  than  once  :  without  religion 
there  is  no  happiness  ?  He  who  is  in  God  and 
with  God,  how  can  he  be  unhappy  ?  " 

"But,  Miss,  the  church  is  not  religion,  and 
God  dwells  every  where." 


iqo  ^ecbofcfce's  tlales 

Leonore  reflected  a  moment,  shook  her  head, 
and  answered  : 

"  You  always  have  something  to  say  to  which 
I  cannot  reply  ;  and  yet  I  feel  that  you  are 
wrong.  You  would  be  a  blessed  man  if  you 
went  to  church." 

' '  Was  not  Christ  more  blessed  than  we  are, 
dear?  and,  tell  me,  did  he  go  to  the  Catholic, 
Lutheran,  or  Reformed  Church  ?  If  you  can 
tell  me  truly  to  which  he  went,  there  will  I 
follow  him." 

Leon  ore  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 
"  He  was  not  a  Catholic,"  said  she  ;  "  neither 
Lutheran,  nor  Reformed.  What  are  you,  then  ? 
Why  do  you  not  belong  to  our  Catholic  church  ? 
You  are,  perhaps,"  added  Leonore,  timidly,  "  a 
Lutheran  ?  Oh,  no,  you  are  not.  Say  you  are 
not." 

"  Would  I  be  of  less  worth  in  your  eyes,"  re- 
turned Frock,  "  if  I  did  not  belong  to  your 
church  ?  ' ' 

"  Ah  !  it  is  melancholy,"  sighed  Leonore,  and 
wept  bitterly.     Frock  could  scarcely  quiet  her. 

When  he  came  again  he  observed  that  Leo- 
nore looked  at  him  more  earnestly  than  usual  ; 
that  her  manner  was  a  mixture  of  compassion 
and  anxiety.     He  drew  forth  a  book  and  said  : 

"This  will,  perhaps,  best  instruct  and  quiet 
you." 


Jonathan  3-rock  191 

"  Oh  !  if  that  were  possible  !  "  said  Leonore, 
quickly. 

She  took  the  book  ;  it  was  Lessing's  "  Nathan 
cfer  Weise." 

Either  this  excellent  book,  or  the  natural 
volatility  of  Leonore's  miud,  quieted  questions 
of  conscience.  She  consoled  herself  with  the 
tnought  that  Frock  was  a  heretic.  She  secretly 
resolved  to  convert  him  ;  and  hoped  to  succeed 
by  inducing  him  to  accompany  her  to  mass  on 
Sundays,  and  perhaps  on  other  days  of  the 
week. 

In  the  meantime,  an  unexpected  event  took 
place,  which  put  an  end  to  all  plans  of  con- 
version. One  morning  the  major,  perfectly 
breathless,  ran  into  Frock's  room,  embraced 
him,  and  said  : 

"  Now,  Friend  Jonathan,  now  your  David  can 
return  all  your  kindness  to  him,  and  reward 
your  love  !     Look  at  this  letter  !    It  comes  from 

the  Stadt  Rath  of  .     In  short— what  d'  ye 

call  it  there  ? — All  the  same.  My  cousin,  the 
old  lieutenant-general,  you  know — what  d'  ye 
call  him  ? — I  have  told  you  how  he  was 
wounded  at — what  d'  ye  call  it?— well,  he  is 
dead,  and  left  no  heirs  ;  and  by  his  last  will  I 
am  lawfully  the  only  heir  to  his  estates.  God 
bless  the  cousin — what  d'  ye  call  him? — we 
were  always  good  friends.     I  am  a  rich  man. 


192  2tecbokfce's  Z&iee 

Read  it.  They  write  that  I  must  either  come 
myself,  or  send  instead  a — what  d'  ye  call  him  ? 
— who  understands  better  than  I,  the  arranging 
of  the  whole  thing.  The  devil  !  there  are 
women  and  lawyers  there  who  protest  against 
it.  If  it  should  go  wrong,  and  end  in  smoke,  I 
know  nothing  about  law.  I  am  old,  and  can- 
not travel  in  the  rough  winter  weather." 

Frock  read  the  letter.  The  case  stood  as 
Major  Von  Tulpen  had  said,  with  regard  to  the 
property  ;  but  the  will,  as  well  as  the  prior  right 
to  the  estate,  was  contested  by  a  distant  line  of 
the  relations  of  the  deceased,  whose  name  they 
bore.  Frock  promised  the  major  that  he  would 
undertake  the  journey,  and  settle  the  business. 

"  If  the  affairs  are  arranged  by  the  spring, 
then  on  the  first  fine  day  you  can  visit  your 
estates,"  said  Frock. 

He  then  put  up  his  books,  and  began  with 
the  major  immediately  to  examine  his  relation- 
ship to  the  deceased. 

Several  days  passed  before  the  necessary  pa- 
pers could  be  collected  for  the  decision  of  the 
lawsuit.  During  this  time,  Frock  having  given 
up  his  former  office-business,  was  every  day  at 
the  major's  house.  What  plans  were  made  ! 
What  dreams  !  Leonore  and  Josephine  painted 
in  hues  brighter  than  those  of  the  rainbow,  a 
heaven  in  the  future.     Frock  was  as  certainly 


3-onatban  Jvock  193 

connected  with  their  plans  as  their  father. 
How  could  he  be  the  only  one  who  did  not 
know  that  he  was  indispensable  to  the  happi- 
ness of  the  rest? 

Even  Josephine,  who  understood  so  perfectly 
her  sphere  of  action,  upon  whose  approbation 
all  depended,  and  who  was  adored  by  every  one, 
even  Josephine  did  not  conceal  from  her  father, 
that  Frock  must  leave  the  city,  and  accompany 
them  to  the  promised  land. 

<l  We  should  otherwise  be  (such  was  the  ex- 
pression she  made  use  of)  without  a  blessing.'''' 

"You  have  chosen  the  right  word,"  cried 
Leonore  ;  "  did  you  hear  it,  father?  without  a 
blessing." 

The  major  answered,  "  Of  course." 

"But,"  said  Josephine,  rising  from  her  seat 
at  the  window,  and  throwing  her  arms  around 
the  major's  neck — "but,  father,  do  you  think 
he  will  be  able  to  make  up  his  mind  to  go  ?  He 
has  not  said  a  word  about  it,  though  we  have 
given  him  the  chief  place  in  our  projects.  Dear 
father,  Frock  is  a  very  peculiar  man.  I  entreat 
you,  make  him  promise  to  accompany  us." 

Herr  Von  Tulpen  was  much  surprised  at  Jo- 
sephine's anxiety. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  !  "  said  she. 

When  Frock  came,  the  major's  first  words 
were: 


194  Zscbokke's  ftaiea 

"  Friend  Jonathan,  my  girls  wish  to  frighten 
me  by  saying  that  you  would  be  silly  enough  to 
leave  us  when  we  went  to — what  d'  ye  call  it? 
— there  are  no  two  ways  about  it,  mind  ye  ! 
You  make  nothing  by  living  in  the  city,  and 
must  go  to  the  estate,  and  remain  till  the  end 
of  your  life.  Select  your  dwelling,  all  and 
every  thing.  We  will  be  content  with  any 
thing  you  choose." 

Frock  bowed  and  thanked  him.  It  was  evi- 
dent he  felt  unhappy. 

Leonore  sprang,  with  a  loud  exclamation,  and 
outstretched  arms,  toward  Frock,  and  embra- 
cing him  affectionately,  cried  : 

"  Oh  !  dear  Herr  Frock,  do  not  put  on  such  a 
face  ;  it  is  that  of  a  dead  angel,  I  am  sure." 

Josephine  had  seen  it  and  sunk  down  quite 
pale.  She  trembled,  and  from  time  to  time 
looked  at  Frock. 

"  Speak  !  "  cried  Leonare.  "  You  remain  for- 
ever with  us.     In  God's  name,  say  yes  !  " 

Frock  laid  both  hands  on  his  heart,  and  with 
an  imploring  look,  said  : 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  the  major,  aghast.  "  Am  I  not 
your  David?  And  you  will  forsake  me,  Jona- 
than ?  Do  not  j  est  with  us  !  You  see  how 
much  pain  such  a  jest  causes  us.  Give  me  your 
hand  comrade  ;  you  will  pass  your  life  with  us." 


3-onatban  frock  195 

"I  cannot!"  answered  Frock,  half  aloud, 
but  with  his  usual  tone  of  decision. 

"You    cannot,   Jonathan! — what    prevents 
you  ?     You  are   as  free  as  the  bird  in  the  air. 
You  cannot? — nonsense!     What  keeps  you  in 
the  city  ?     Are  we  not  your  only  friends  ?  " 
'  The  only  ones." 

"  Or — ha  !  has  the  young  fellow  a  sweetheart? 
Nonsense  !  We  will  take  the — what  d'  ye  call 
her  ? — with  us.     Out  with  it :  a  sweetheart  ?  " 

"None." 

"Well!  what  pleases  you  so  much  in  the 
city  ? ' ' 

'  Nothing." 

"And  will  you  not  stay  with  us,  and  live  in 
the  promised  land  with  us,  because  you  have 
been  our  good  angel  in  our  years  of  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  cannot." 

"Why  not?  There  must  be  some  impedi- 
ment. It  can  be  removed.  Do  you  not  know 
that  when  they  said  at — what  d'  ye  call  it? 
—it  would  be  impossible  to  take  the  battery, 
that  I  led  my  grenadiers  against  it,  and  took 
it,  though  it  did  cost  ten  or  more  fine  fellows' 
lives. ' ' 

' '  I  would  do  any  thing  for  you — I  could  die 
for  you.  But  pray  do  some  thing  for  me.  Leave 
me  at  liberty  to  go  where  I  like,  so  soon  as  I 
have   arranged  your   affairs,  and  say   nothing 


196  ^scbofcfce's  £ales 

further  to  me.  You  do  not  know  how  you  tear 
my  heart.  If  my  life,  my  health  are  dear  to 
you,  say  nothing  more  to  me  about  it." 

"Then  farewell,  promised  land!"  sobbed 
Leonore.  "  Father,  then  we  will  remain  here  in 
the  city." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  major  gloomily. 

"Then — then,"  stammered  Frock,  "I  will 
leave  the  city.     Sacred  duties  call  me  hence." 

He  was  so  agitated,  as  he  pronounced  the  last 
words,  that  he  could  scarcely  utter  them.  He 
withdrew,  promising  to  return  after  a  short 
walk. 

And  when  he  did  return,  he  found  them  all  in 
the  same  places  where  he  had  left  them.  The 
major  leaned  gloomily  back  in  his  arm-chair. 
Leonore  sat  in  a  corner  with  weeping  eyes  ; 
Josephine  without  tears,  but  like  a  stone.  There 
was  something  indescribable  in  her  expression  ; 
deathlike,  immovable ;  frightful  with  all  its 
beauty.  Leonore  and  her  father  arose  to  wel- 
come him. 

"  You  have  thought  better  of  it ;  is  it  not  so, 
Jonathan  ?  "  said  the  major.  But  Josephine  did 
not  stir. 

"Let  us  talk  on  pleasanter  subjects,"  said 
Frock,  but  the  attempt  was  vain.  Frock  took 
out  some  paper  and  wrote  till  dark.  The  others 
sat  around  in  silence.  Leonore  wept  and  sewed. 


Sonatban  tftocfc  197 

Josephine,  motionless,  with  her  beautiful  head 
leaning  on  her  hand,  stared  out  of  the  window, 
without  observing  the  passers-by. 

"  Do  you  still  persevere  in  your  childish 
behavior?  "  cried  the  major  the  following  day, 
as  he  entered  his  friend  Jonathan's  chamber, 
and  found  him  lying  on  the  bed,  with  swollen 
eyes  and  as  pale  as  death. 

Frock  had  been  expected  at  the  Tulpen  house 
to  dinner  and  had  not  come. 

"  How  late  is  it  ?  "  said  Frock,  and  sprang  up. 

At  the  side  of  his  bed  stood  a  table,  with  cold 
punch  and  a  decanter  of  Madeira.  He  drank  a 
glass  of  the  latter,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
major. 

"Past  three  o'clock,"  said  Major  Von  Tul- 
pen. 

"  Past  three  o'clock  ?  Then  I  have  been  in  a 
dead  sleep  for  seven  hours.  So  much  the  better. 
I  finished  every  thing  last  night.  I  can  travel 
to  the  estate  to-morrow.  I  shall  pay  my  old 
landlady  and  spend  the  evening  with  you, 
and  let  the  post-wagon  stop  for  me  there.  It 
does  not  agree  with  me  here.  My  health  re- 
quires change  of  scene ;  otherwise  it  will 
destroy  me." 

"  Have  you  had  company  ?  "  asked  the  major, 
and  pointed  to  the  punch. 

"  I  have  worked  all  night  and " 


198  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

' '  Wished  to  raise  your  spirits. ' ' 

"  My  spirits  require  no  excitement.  But,  no 
matter  what  depressed  the  spirits,  poor  flesh 
and  blood  must  be  sustained." 

"  Comrade,  you  look  miserably.  We  are  men 
comrade  ;  for  God's  sake !  tell  me  what  is 
wronging  you  ?  I  will  be  as  silent  as  the  grave, 
only  speak.  Why  are  you  not  like  other  children 
of  men  ?  Why  did  you  refuse  that — what  d'  ye 
call  him  ? — the  prince  who  offered  you  in  the 
prison,  an  honorable  situation  in  his  country  ? 
Why  did  you  prefer  lowliness  and  poverty  ? 
Why  do  3'ou  love  us  and  yet  appear  colder  and 
more  strange  to  us  than  you  feel  ?  Why  do  you 
renounce  the  pleasures  of  friendship,  evidently 
contrary  to  the  inclination  of  your  heart,  which 
is  so  susceptible  of  friendship  ?  Why  do  you 
avoid  good  men  who  seek  you  and  would  will- 
ingly risk  their  lives  for  you?  Why  are  you  as 
changeable  as  the  sun  in  an  April  day  ?  In  the 
midst  of  gayety,  dark  clouds  pass  over  your 
joyous  countenance.  Do  not  seek  to  escape  me. 
See,  Jonathan,  there  will  be  nothing  more  be- 
tween us  if  you  do  not  tell  me.  Why  will  you 
not  stay  with  us,  when  you  return  from  my 
expected  estates  ?  We  need  you.  We  swear  to 
you,  it  is  worth  more  to  us  than  a  kingdom. 
You  are  generally  so  soft-hearted  ;  why  are  you 
now  so  hard-hearted?  " 


3-onatban  ffrocfc  199 

Frock  filled  his  glass  once  more  and  swal- 
lowed the  wine. 

"  I  really  believe  you  wish  to  intoxicate  your- 
self. Is  it  not  so  ?  Jonathan  we  are  alone.  Let 
us  speak  honestly  and  soberly  together.  Have 
you  committed  a  crime  ?  Speak,  for  I  could 
swear  you  did  it  unintentionally,  and  have 
long  since  atoned  for  it.  You  will  lose  noth- 
ing in  my  love  for  you.  Had  you  slain  my 
father  or  mother  I  could  forgive  you  for  it." 

"I  am  no  criminal!"  said  Frock,  with  a 
proud  glance. 

"  The  old  Nick  !  then  you  are  a  fool !  What 
evil  spirit  torments  you  then  ?  Can  you  not  solve 
the  mystery  ?  ' ' 

"With  one  word,  if  I  wished,  Herr  Major.  I 
have  determined  that  you  shall  know  it." 

"When?" 

"  To-day  before  I  leave  for  your  estates." 

"And  when  I  have  heard  the  one  word,  and 
say  to  37ou,  Jonathan,  it  is  all  nonsense." 

"That  you  will  not  say." 

"  The  old  Nick  !  I  would  if  I  could  put  an  end 
to  your  misery. ' ' 

"  That  you  could  not  do." 

"  But  listen.  Do  not  put  me  in  a  passion.  I 
say  I  will  do  it ;  and  if  I  can  do  it,  will  you  then 
stay  with  us  ?  " 

"Yes." 


2oo  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 


"  Yes  !  your  hand  upon  it." 

Frock  gave  his  hand  ;  the  major  embraced  him 
as  if  all  difficulties  were  overcome. 

"Upon  your  word,  then,  you  will  to-day  tell 
me  the  fatal  secret  of  which  you  have  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  ?  " 

"This  evening,  Herr  Major,  before  I  get  into 
the  wagon.  But  mind  that  the  leave-taking  be 
gay,  or  at  least  peaceful.  Let  us  drink  punch  to 
forget  our  sorrow.  Sometimes  it  may  be  a  duty 
to  become  intoxicated,  and  I  should  wish  to  be 
so,  when  I  leave  you.  My  life  with  you  has 
been  only  a  state  of  intoxication." 

The  major  promised  to  take  care  that  the 
evening  should  be  gay. 

"  We  will  take  leave  of  each  other  more  con- 
tentedly than  you  suppose,"  said  he,  and  went 
home  to  make  preparations. 

Frock  packed  up  every  thing,  and  when  he 
had  finished,  saw  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
telescope.     The  teats  started  in  his  eyes. 

' '  Ah  ! ' '  sighed  he,  ' '  come  and  make  me 
happy  for  the  last  time." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked  out, 
and  beheld  Josephine.  By  her  movements  he 
found  that  she  was  weeping  and  sobbing. 
After  a  while,  she  hastily  wiped  her  eyes  and 
cheeks  with  her  handkerchief.  Oh !  how 
beautiful  she  was,  as  she  raised  her  blue  eyes  in 


3-onatban  tfrocfc 


prayer,  to  the  blue  heavens.  She  went  into  the 
house. 

"Good  night,  forever! — good  night,  Joseph- 
ine !  "  cried  Frock,  as  he  threw  himself  on  the 
bed,  in  heart-rending  grief. 

He  loved  Josephine  with  all  the  passion  of 
which  a  tender  heart  is  capable.  He  had 
now  lived  for  two  years  in  her  society,  in  silent 
adoration  of  her ;  had  striven  with  himself  for 
two  years,  and  found  his  passion  was  unconquer- 
able. Therefore  the  journey  and  change  of 
scene  were  welcome  to  him,  for  he  hoped  to 
cure  himself;  and  intended  only  after  a  long 
time,  or  perhaps  never  again,  to  see  the  charmer. 

Frock  thought  and  acted  like  a  man,  who 
does  not  wish  to  become  the  prey  of  his  passion. 
As  often  as  he  had  visited  the  Tulpen  house  in 
the  two  years  past,  he  had  been  able  (with  re- 
markable strength  of  mind)  to  conceal  under  a 
a  cold,  polite  exterior,  the  inward  raging  of  his 
soul.  He  had  been  intimate  with  and  talka- 
tive to  every  one  excepting  Josephine.  She 
could  not  suspect  his  passion  ;  still  less  did  it 
enter  his  head,  that  he  could  excite  a  similar 
feeling  in  her.  And  could  he  have  thought 
that  Josephine  returned  his  affection,  he  would 
long  since  have  fled  the  house,  the  city,  the 
kingdom. 

Sometimes  it  appeared  suspicious,  when  he 


^scbofcfce's  ftales 


accidentally  saw  her  dark,  earnest  eye,  fixed 
upon  him,  and  then  suddenly  restlessly  turned 
away.  Sometimes,  when  she  spoke  with  singu- 
lar energy,  not  to  him,  but  to  others,  if  the  con- 
versation related  to  him — sometimes,  when  she 
took  most  pleasure  in  doing  what  he  best  liked ; 
something  breathed  through  her  existence, 
which  spoke  to  him,  like  Love  to  Love.  She 
was  more  reserved,  more  thoughtful  in  his 
company,  than  in  any  other  person's.  Still  he 
had  never  addressed  a  flattering  word  to  her, 
nor  she  to  him.  They  behaved  like  strangers 
to  each  other,  with  a  formal  civility  of  man- 
ners. Frock  now  recovered  his  manly  spirit, 
emptied  the  third  glass  of  Madeira,  put  on  his 
travelling  clothes,  ordered  the  post-wagon,  in 
which  his  trunk  was  placed,  and  then  went  to 
the  Tulpen  house. 

It  was  rather  an  embarrassment  to  him  to 
find  Josephine  alone  in  the  room.  She  was 
looking  pale.  He  asked  after  her  father  and 
sister.  The  latter  had  gone  to  make  the  punch  ; 
the  major  had  been  absent  an  hour.  Frock 
threw  off  his  cloak,  and  asked  several  indiffer- 
ent questions,  which  were  answered  only  in 
monosyllables.  She  sat  at  the  window  knitting, 
without  raising  her  eyes.  He  stood  at  the 
chimney,  looking  at  her.  She  had  never  ap- 
peared to  him  so  beautiful  as  at  that  moment. 


9-onatban  ffrock  203 

After  a  silence  of  several  minutes,  she  arose, 
looked  at  him,  and  then  slowly  approached 
him.  "Frock,"  said  she,  with  her  usual  cold- 
ness, and  looking  at  him  steadfastly,  "  do  you 
go  away  to-day,  as  my  father  says  ?  I  have  to 
ask  you  a  question.  Answer  me  plainly.  You 
have  resolved  not  to  return  to  us.  I  will  not 
ask  the  reason,  if  it  is  different  from  what  I 
suppose  it  to  be  ;  but  answer  me  truly,  if  I  give 
the  reason,  and  dissipate  your  error.  I  feel  it ; 
I  am  the  author  of  all  your  misery,  and  it  gives 
me  pain." 

Frock's  face  became  scarlet,  and  his  heart 
beat  so  fast,  that  he  could  scarcely  say :  ' '  Dear 
Miss,  what  makes  you  say  so  ?  what  can  make 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"  If  I  am  mistaken,  so  much  the  better,"  said 
Josephine;  "it  would  add  much  to  my  con- 
tentedness  for  the  future.  Answer  me  truly. 
We  are  alone ;  but  God  is  our  witness.  Will 
you?  " 

Frock  trembled  ;  he  answered :  "I  will,"  but 
scarce  had  the  courage  to  meet  the  maiden's 
eyes  ;  Josephine  stood  looking  so  serious,  yet 
so  lovely  before  him. 

"  Confess,  then.  You  have  thrown  my  father 
and  my  sister  into  grief  and  tears ;  you  wish  to 
separate  yourself  from  them  for  ever ;  from 
those  who  love  you  so  much,  and  for  whom  you 


204  ^scbofcke's  Gales 

yourself  cannot  help  feeling  the  most  sincere 
friendship.  You  insist  on  leaving  us  forever, 
and  that  only  on  my  account  ?  " 

Conscience-stricken  and  overcome  by  his 
feelings,  Frock  could  not  collect  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  answer. 

"Your  silence  confirms  my  suspicions,"  said 
Josephine.  "I  feared  it  some  time  since,  and 
Leonore  guessed  it.  But  I  declare  to  you,  my 
dear  Frock,  and  the  Almighty  knows  it,  that  it 
never  was  my  intention  to  offend  or  annoy  you. 
My  behavior  toward  you  may  have  been  blam- 
able  ;  I  have  not  treated  you  as  my  father  and 
sister  did,  as  I  might  have  done  ;  but,  oh  !  be- 
lieve that  I  highly  esteem  you.  Would  I  other- 
wise have  taken  the  presents  from  you,  wThich  I 
refused  to  accept  from  the  chancellor?  I  cer- 
tainly never  intended  to  offend  you  ;  I  behaved 
different  to  you  than  I  did  to  other  persons ; 
but  Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  I  could  not  have 
done  otherwise.  Pardon  me  for  it ;  and  be  as- 
sured that  I  do  not  feel  unkindly  toward  you 
now,  or  have  done  so.  I  esteem  you,  though 
I  do  not  express  my  sense  of  your  worth,  as 
my  father  and  Leonore  do.  You  forgive  me  ; 
do  you  not  ?   You  are  not  still  angry  with  me  ?  " 

Much  moved,  and  quite  overcome  by  his  feel- 
ings, Frock  caught  hold  of  Josephine's  hand, 
and  said : 


5onatban  tfroch  205 

"What  is  it  you  say?  Offended  me  ?  How 
can  you  imagine  such  a  thing,  lady  ?  Oh  !  no, 
no  !  To  breathe  in  your  presence  was  my  only, 
my  greatest  happiness.  Yes  !  dearest,  the 
thought  of  you  will  ever  be  most  dear  to  me." 
He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  heart,  then  let  it  go, 
drew  back,  and  stammered  forth:  "Bless  the 
unhappy  one,  and  let  him  depart." 

' '  Do  you  care  as  much  for  me  as  for  my 
father  and  Leonore  ?  "  asked  Josephine,  speak- 
ing slowly,  and  looking  at  him  with  earnest- 
ness. He  sank  at  her  feet,  raised  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  said  : 

"More  !  " 

"What  are  you  doing  ?  "  cried  Josephine. 

He  arose  in  great  confusion,  scarce  conscious 
of  what  he  was  doing.  Her  hand  lay  in  his,  and 
she  drew  it  not  away. 

"Now  that  the  misunderstanding  is  settled," 
said  she,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  I  may  tell  my 
father  and  Leonore,  that  you  will  not  separate 
yourself  from  us  ?  " 

"Lady!"  cried  Frock,  "you  only,  in  the 
wTorld,  can  decide  what  I  shall  do.  I  shall  obey. 
But  do  not  require  me  to  stay  here !  You 
would  be  asking  my  death." 

The  tears  started  into  Josephine's  eyes  and 
ran  down  her  cheeks,  but  her  countenance  re- 
mained the  same.  In  a  cold,  quiet  voice  she  said : 


206  %schokke's  Gales 

' '  If  you  leave  us  forever,  you  will  destroy  my 
father's  and  Leonore's  joy  and  happiness  for 
life — and  you  will  kill  me." 

After  uttering  the  last  words,  which  were  said 
with  some  hesitation,  she  sank  in  a  chair,  and 
sobbed  aloud,  in  irrepressible  grief.  Frock,  no 
longer  master  of  himself,  threw  his  arms 
around  the  fainting  girl.  As  if  in  a  dream,  he 
clasped  her,  bent  over  her  face,  and  pressed  his 
lips  to  hers.  The  past  and  future  were  alike 
forgotten.  Her  sighs  revealed  to  him  what  he 
would  not  have  believed  had  all  the  angels  of 
heaven  assured  him  of  it.  When  from  pride,  or 
shame,  Josephine  drew  herself  back,  he  stood 
as  if  doubting  what  had  happened ;  then  once 
more  approaching  the  girl,  he  drew  her  again 
toward  him.     She  said  : 

"  Then  you  never  were  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Before  you  knew  me,  I  loved  you  more  than 
my  life  !  "  cried  he,  enraptured. 

At  this  moment  they  heard  the  major  and 
Leonore  approaching.  Josephine  hastened  to 
meet  and  embrace  them ;  and  cried,  with  a 
flushed  and  animated  countenance  : 

"  Everything  is  right  !  Every  thing  is 
right!" 

"Thank  God  !  "  said  the  major,  as  he  shook 
the  delighted  Frock  by  the  hand.  "  The  devil 
stands  ready  for  every  one  ;  there  would  have 


3-onatban  ffroch  207 

been  mischief,  if  the  little  one  here  had  not  hit 
upon  a  cunning  expedient." 

He  pointed  to  Leonore. 

Leonore  danced  for  joy.  She  ran  up  to  Frock 
and  said  : 

"Then  you  are  quite  reconciled.  It  is 
true,  Josephine  has  sometimes  treated  you 
strangely,  but  she  likes  you  very  much — I 
know  she  does.  Oh  !  how  happy  I  am  !  Come, 
I  must  give  you  a  kiss  for  it.  I  am  as  giddy  as 
if  I  had  been  drinking  punch."  With  this  she 
clung  to  his  neck  like  a  burr,  and  kissed  him 
with  the  greatest  affection. 

Then  the  cloth  was  laid ;  the  candles  were 
lighted  ;  cold  meats  and  wine  were  brought  in  ; 
Leonore  and  Frock  had  to  make  the  punch. 
They  were  all  very  gay,  though  they  said  noth- 
ing very  connectedly.  Frock  stood  as  if  in  a 
dream,  squeezing  lemons.  Josephine  floated 
hither  and  thither ;  her  bright  eyes  turned 
toward  the  only  one  who  had  infused  light  into 
the  darkness  of  her  soul.  Leonore  sang,  cracked 
sugar,  danced  around,  laughed,  and  said  re- 
peatedly, "I  am  very  silly."  The  old  major 
smoked  his  pipe,  walked  up  and  down,  joined 
sometimes  in  Leonore's  song,  and,  between 
whiles,  swore  in  a  very  droll  manner  at  his 
Jonathan. 

They  seated  themselves   in   a  merry  circle. 


208  ^scbokfce's  Gales 

Leonore  filled  the  punch-glasses,  and  now  they 
must  drink  to  eternal  friendship.  Frock,  be- 
coming excited,  drank  glass  after  glass  ;  he 
seemed  to  wish  either  to  forget  himself  in  intox- 
ication or  to  enjoy  his  happiness  to  its  full 
extent.  His  countenance  often  involuntarily 
resumed  its  usual  sadness  ;  but  no  sooner  did 
Leonore  observe  it  than,  raising  her  finger 
threateningly,  she  said  :  "  You  are  right.  All 
must  be  forgotten  now.  Evil  will  come  at  its 
own  time. "  So  he  gave  himself  up  to  his  hap- 
piness. 

When  the  simple  supper  was  finished,  and  the 
punch  had  raised  their  spirits,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  flowing  freely,  the  major  pulled  out 
his  watch  and  looked  at  the  time.  Frock  ob- 
served it,  showing  alarm,  and  became  suddenly 
gloomy  and  silent.  Josephine  shook  her  head 
at  him,  laid  her  hand  softly  upon  his,  and  said  : 
"  Again  the  evil  spirit." 

The  touch  of  her  hand  drove  all  Frock's 
blood  more  joyfully  through  his  pulse.  "  /was 
only  thinking  of  the  journey,"  said  he. 

"  The  journey  !  "  cried  Leonore,  displeased. 
"  I  say  delay  the  journey  for  a  fortnight." 

Josephine  joined  her  other  hand  to  the  first 
and  whispered,  with  an  imploring  smile  :  "Yes, 
yes  !  Frock,  for  two  days  !  " 

"  Children,"    cried  the    major,    interposing, 


3-onatban  jfroch  2og 

"Jonathan  has  no  longer  a  lodging  in  the  city, 
and  every  thing  is  packed  up.  He  must  now 
go,  and  you  must  not  detain  him.  He  will 
sit  as  comfortably  in  the  post-wagon  as  in  the 
inn.  What  must  be,  must  be.  Let  him  go.  I 
part  with  him  willingly  now,  as  he  is  to  remain 
with  us  forever.  In  a  few  weeks  he  will  return 
to  us,  to  go  to  the  promised  land." 

The  "  promised  land  "  was  enough  to  inspirit 
every  one.  The  former  plans  for  the  future 
were  reviewed  and  embellished.  The  major 
spoke  of  by-gone  days  with  touching  delight. 
He  lived  only  for  his  daughters,  and,  until  now, 
he  had  had  only  the  most  gloomy  prospects  for 
them. 

"I  am  now  safe,  and  can  close  my  eyes  in 
peace.  They  will  at  least  not  be  obliged  to 
struggle  with  poverty,"  said  he.  "But,  girls, 
one  thing  is  wanting.  I  must  not  forget  to  get 
it  before  I  leave  you  :  a  pair  of  sons-in-law  who 
will  please  me,  and  be  like  my  own  sons  to  me." 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  me,  papa," 
said  Leonore,  laughing ;  "  you  will  be  con- 
tented with  me.  And  as  for  Josephine  there, 
look  at  them,  with  their  hands  joined  together, 
and  their  eyes  fixed  on  each  other.  Did  you 
ever  see  any  thing  like  it,  papa  ?  Make  Jona- 
than your  son  ;  how  happy  I  shall  be  with  such 
a  brother  !  " 


210  ^scbokfce's  Gales 

Josephine,  blushing,  drew  away  her  hand  and 
said  : 

"  I  really  believe,  child,  that  you  are  intoxi- 
cated." 

"Jonathan!  Jonathan!"  cried  the  major, 
threatening  jestingly  and  significantly  across 
the  table,  "  I  see  mischief  is  going  on.  Why  are 
you  holding  Josephine's  hand,  when  for  the  last 
two  years  you  scarce  ventured  to  look  her  in  the 
face  ?  Come  here  at  once!  something  strikes  me." 

Frock  arose  and  went  to  the  major. 

"  Be  more  candid,  Jonathan,"  said  the  major, 
"  be  more  candid  now  than  you  were  with  me 
this  afternoon.     You  love  Josephine  ?  " 

Frock  took  the  major's  hand  and  pressed  it 
in  silence  to  his  breast.  Josephine  arose  in 
beautiful  confusion,  looked  to  the  right  and 
left,  and  wished  to  leave  the  room. 

"Stop,  girl!  stay  here!"  said  her  father, 
"  for  you  shall  make  good  what  you  told  me 
before  dinner.  Stay  here.  All  shall  be  settled  ; 
then  you  will  know  where  you  are.  I  am  no 
friend  to  deliberation  and  suspense.  And  you, 
Jonathan,  open  your  mouth  and  speak.  Curse 
this  timidity,  which  was  within  a  hair's  breadth 
of  making  our  unhappiness.  You  love  Jose- 
phine. Is  it  not  the  cause  of  the  misery  you 
would  not  confess,  and  which  threatened  to 
drive  you  from  us  ?  " 


3onatban  jjfrocfc  211 

"It  is  my  misfortune,"  said  Frock,  with  sad 
and  averted  looks.  ' '  I  love  her  ;  how  could  I 
do  otherwise  ?     That  is  the  cause  of  my  misery. ' ' 

"Go  to  !  Jonathan  !  do  not  speak  in  that 
way.  Misery  ?  What !  if  you  thought  yourself 
poor  could  I  not  give  to  you  ?  Are  you  not 
richer  than  I  ?  If  you  have  thought  yourself 
but  a  citizen,  and  dared  not  raise  your  eyes  to 
Fraulein  Von  Tulpen,  curse  it !  have  you  not  a 
more  noble  heart  than  I  ?  Remember  the  gold 
snuff-box.  Have  I  ever  once  been  so  noble  as 
you  have  often  been  ?  If  you  have  fancied  that 
I  despised  you,  you  are  quite  wrong,  young 
man.  I  learned  this  morning,  with  mingled  joy 
and  grief,  what  you  are  to  her.  I  could  not  force 
my  child  upon  you  ;  but  that  you  might  have 
an  opportunity  of  explaining  yourself,  I  asked 
for  your  confidence.  Do  you  now  feel  miserable?' ' 

Frock  continued  to  gaze  around.  Just  then 
the  roll  of  a  wagon  was  heard.  The  post-boy's 
horn  sounded  before  the  door. 

"  Wait  outside  !  "  cried  the  major.  Rising 
from  his  chair,  he  embraced  Jonathan  and  Jose- 
phine. "  It  must  be  so,  before  you  leave  us. 
God  bless  you  !  Take  her,  Jonathan  ;  she  is 
your  bride — you  are  my  son  !  " 

Frock,  in  great  emotion,  drew  back. 

"  What !  "  stammered  the  major,  in  alarm  ; 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 


212  ^scbokke'6  ZnlcB 

Josephine  looked  with  amazement  at  Frock. 

"Do  you  not  love  her?"  asked  the  major 
angrily. 

"  I  dare  not,"  answered  Frock. 

"  Dare  not  ?     What  prevents  you  ?  " 

"  You  will  not — you  dare  not  give  me  Jose- 
phine. Josephine  cannot  love  me.  I  am  no 
criminal  ;  but  I  am " 

At  this  word  Frock  drew  a  sealed  paper  from 
his  pocket  and  threw  it  upon  the  table.  Jose- 
phine turned  as  pale  as  death.  Leonore,  fright- 
ened, screamed  aloud,  and  could  not  understand 
what  was  going  on. 

"Be  quiet!"  cried  the  major.  "What  the 
Nick  is  the  matter  ?  Jonathan,  out  with 
it !  Why  do  you  hesitate  to  become  my 
son  ?  " 

"  Herr  Major,"  said  Frock,  in  a  very  earnest 
and  impressive  manner,  "I  adore  Josephine — I 
have  never  loved  any  other  maiden.  I  am  not, 
however,  to  blame  that  I  cannot  enjoy  the  hap- 
piness that  you  so  generously  destine  for  me  ; 
neither  is  fate  to  be  blamed." 

"Away  with  your  prefaces,"  interrupted  the 
major  ;  "  where  does  the  fault  then  lie  ?  " 

"  In  your  prejudices,  Herr  Major." 

"  The  old  Nick  !  in  my  prejudices  !  " 

"  I  am  not  a  Christian." 

"  Jesu  Maria  !  "  cried  Leonore. 


3-onatban  afrocfc  213 

"  I  was  born  in  the  Mosaic  faith,  and  am 

a  Jew." 

"A Jew!"  faltered  the  major,  stupefied,  as 
he  let  his  arm  fall  by  his  side.  L,eonore  sprung 
with  a  piercing  cry  to  Josephine,  who  sank  on 
a  chair.  Frock  said  :  "  Read  the  sealed  paper. 
Farewell  !  ye  dear  ones  !  farewell  to  you,  my 
heaven?"  and  seizing  his  cloak  and  hat,  he 
rushed  out  of  the  door.  The  post-boy  blew  his 
horn.  The  wagon  rolled  on.  The  contents  of 
the  sealed  paper,  which  must  be  regarded  as  a 
continuation  of  Frock's  speech,  ran,  word  for 
word,  as  follows  : 

"  I  am  a  Jew  ;  this  confession,  ye  beloved 
ones,  will  solve  the  mystery  of  my  conduct. 
What  maiden  in  all  Christendom  would  consent 
to  make  me  happy  ?  What  temporal  or  spirit- 
ual authority  of  our  land  would  suffer  me  to 
hold  any  public  office,  or  to  teach  in  a  school 
of  Christian  children  ?  I  am  a  Jew,  which  con- 
demns me  without  having  committed  any 
offence,  and  only  because  I  descend  from  a 
people  who,  from  the  prejudices  of  the  last 
thousand  years,  are  despised  and  outlawed  by 
Christians,  Turks,  and  Heathens.  They  are  so 
oppressed  by  the  contempt  in  which  they  are 
held  that,  alas  !  they  often  merit  it.  I  was  born 
in   Alsace,  of  poor   parents,    who,    like   many 


214  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

others  of  our  belief,  gained  their  livelihood  by- 
artifice,  usury,  and  deceiving  Christians,  all 
caused  by  the  prejudice  of  the  world  against 
them. 

1 '  The  French  revolution  broke  out  in  mj 
early  youth.  It  was  then  the  professors  of  the 
Mosaic  religion  first  obtained  the  right  of  being 
considered  men  among  men,  and  of  being  made 
citizens  of  a  great  city,  not  banished,  nor  merely 
tolerated  creatures. 

"  In  the  confusion  of  the  civil  war  I  became  a 
drummer,  and  was  torn  from  my  home  before  I 
was  of  age.  The  old  people  I  never  saw  again. 
But  my  youth,  my  daring  courage,  and  my 
natural  understanding  gained  me  friends.  I 
became  the  servant  of  a  colonel,  who  afterward 
won  an  honorable  name  among  the  French 
generals,  and  who  took  so  much  interest  in  me 
that  he  regretted  my  many  imprudences  on  the 
field  of  battle.  He  allowed  me  to  indulge  at 
his  expense  my  desire  for  learning  by  attending 
a  school  in  a  French  frontier  town.  Thus  I 
received  such  cultivation  of  mind  and  heart 
that  it  was  of  the  greatest  importance  to  me  in 
my  future  position  in  the  world.  My  education 
in  science  was  not  completed.  Yet,  if  I  had 
ventured  to  devote  myself  to  medicine  I  should 
perhaps  have  been  able  to  gain  an  honorable 
existence  in  some  great  town.     My  patron  (the 


Sonatban  ffrock  215 

general),  however,  recalled  me,  and  made  me 
his  private  secretary.  I  remained  with  him 
until  his  death,  which  was  caused  by  a  cannon- 
ball.  Without  either  calling  or  prospects  for 
the  future,  I  chose  the  trade  of  war ;  long  fol- 
lowed the  troops,  hither  and  thither  upon  the 
fields  of  battle  ;  made  myself  rich  with  a  sor- 
rowful wisdom,  observiug  the  miseries  of  the 
people  and  their  rulers,  and  the  passions  and 
prejudices  that  alone  govern  the  earth.  Above 
all,  I  endeavored  to  preserve  the  cousciousness 
of  my  inner  worth,  and  to  resign  all  claims  to 
any  outward  acknowledgment  of  it.  The  life 
of  Jesus  Christ  has  wrought  this  improvement 
within  me.  In  wisdom,  virtue,  or  courage,  no 
greater  than  he  has  ever  appeared  on  the  earth. 
Every  great  man  is  great  only  in  relation  to  the 
existing  events  of  his  age.  The  greatness  of 
Jesus,  however,  is  confined  to  no  age,  and  de- 
pendent on  no  circumstances  belonging  to  his 
time.  Still,  should  he  now  appear  for  the  first 
time  among  Christians,  they  would  nail  him  to 
the  cross  as  the  Jews  did. 

"  I  make  it  the  aim  of  my  life  to  become  like 
Jesus  ;  to  sacrifice  the  exterior  to  the  innermost, 
the  perishable  to  the  eternal  ;  to  the  great  aim 
of  the  spirit,  the  bodily,  domestic,  and  political 
ties.  In  courage  and  strength  I  am  wanting, 
not  in  will. 


216  %schokke'5  Gales 

"The  soldier's  life  disgusts  me.  My  only 
friend  among  men,  a  promising  young  man 
from  Nancy,  was  killed  at  my  side.  I  had 
many  quarrels,  in  the  wild  life  we  led,  with  my 
comrades.  The  captains  of  the  army  were  un- 
just toward  me ;  I  deserted  to  the  enemy, 
dressed  myself  in  citizen's  clothes,  and  gained 
my  livelihood  by  teaching  languages,  and 
other  pursuits.  My  stay  was  not  long  at  any 
place.  I  was  not  wanting  in  friends,  but  they 
were  Christians,  and  had  they  known  that  I 
was  a  Jew,  even  the  most  liberal  and  enlight- 
ened among  them  would  have  been  overcome 
by  a  singular  and  involuntary  disgust.  There- 
fore, I  avoided  forming  intimacies,  which  a 
future  separation  would  only  make  me  regret. 
I  feared  friendship,  because  it  could  only  bring 
sorrow  for  me.  I  was  now  forced  to  resign  all 
thoughts  of  a  permanent  establishment  or  acts 
of  citizenship  in  any  Christian  city.  In  some 
places,  as  a  Jew,  I  would  not  be  allowed  to 
remain  a  day  ;  in  others,  I  would  be  allowed  the 
greatest  toleration  ;  but  nowhere  would  a  situa- 
tion or  citizen's  rights  be  granted  me.  For 
these  a  baptismal  certificate  was  requisite,  and 
I  had  never  been  baptized.     What  could  I  say  ? 

"  My  religious  opinions  interfered,  in  a  pain- 
ful manner,  with  the  most  trying  circumstances 
of  my  life  and  being.     If  the  bells  were  ringing 


3-onatban  jfrock  217 

for  church,  and  the  Christians  were  all,  like  one 
family,  flocking  there,  I  was  obliged  to  worship 
God  in  my  own  little  room.  Many  censured 
me  for  never  going  to  church  ;  others  regarded 
me  as  a  free-thinker,  who  lived  without  religion. 
I  could  not  go  to  church,  for  that  would  have 
been  a  deception  ;  neither  could  I  join  the  free- 
thinkers, because  I  despised  all  their  opinions. 
I  was  even  oppressed  by  my  better  feelings,  as 
well  as  by  the  position  in  which  I  stood.  For 
some  time  I  entertained  the  thought  of  joining 
a  Jewish  synagogue,  and  becoming  a  teacher  of 
the  truth  to  my  own  people,  in  order  to  raise 
them  from  their  state  of  mental  slavery  to  the 
dignity  of  human  nature.  But  I  remembered 
that  I  was  deficient  in  every  necessary  requisite. 
I  had  forgotten  the  Jewish  German,  knew  little 
or  nothing  of  the  customary  usages,  or  of  the 
Talmud  writings  and  doctrines.  I  saw  the  im- 
possibility of  removing  by  mere  arguments, 
dictated  by  reason,  the  rust  of  many  thousand 
years  and  prejudices  which  had  now  become 
sacred  ;  or  of  overcoming  the  obstinacy  of  poor 
ignorant  men,  contracted  in  their  ideas,  and 
who  had  become  what  they  were  through  the 
barbarous  regulations  of  Christian  law-givers. 
The  Rabbis  would  have  execrated  me ;  the 
Jews  have  expelled  and  stoned  me.  New  reli- 
gious parties  have  arisen,  and  are  still  arising, 


218  ^scbofcfce's  Galea 

among  Christians  and  Mohammedans.  Im- 
proved judgment,  the  operation  of  the  climate, 
or  particular  inquiry,  tends  to  promote  them. 
But  the  Jews  will  allow  neither  new  sects  nor 
schisms.  The  enlightened  Jews  are  only  what 
the  free-thinkers  are  among  the  Christians. 

"Disowned  by  my  own  brethren,  and  op- 
pressed by  my  desire  to  enjoy  my  rights  as  a 
man  among  Europeans,  and  from  my  respect 
for  Jesus,  I  would  have  become  a  Christian  and 
been  baptized.  But  besides  not  being  able  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  make  myself  a  show  in 
this  solemnity,  even  after  my  baptism  I  should 
be  only  a  baptized  and  converted  Jew,  not  a 
Christian,  born  of  Christian  parents,  and  against 
this  every  feeling  within  me  rebelled.  Much 
rather  would  I  be,  and  remain,  an  Israelite  ;  for 
there  was  actually  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in 
this  name.  Moses  was  a  greater  man  than  the 
whole  race  of  popes  ;  than  Luther,  Calvin,  or 
Zwingli.  A  Jew  is  very  rarely  baptized  by 
Christians,  from  the  effect  of  mental  convic- 
tion, but  frequently  for  the  sake  of  profit,  which 
causes  the  suspicion  and  contempt,  that  always 
attaches  to  a  baptized  Jew.  An  open  professor 
is  worth  more  than  the  renegade  or  Mameluke. 

"  In  addition  to  these  considerations,  a  more 
powerful  reason  prevented  my  entering  the 
Christian  church.     I  was  doubtful  to  which  I 


Sonatban  ilfrock  219 

should  belong.  If  Christ  were  again  to  appear, 
would  he  be  a  Catholic,  a  Lutheran,  or  a  Calvin- 
ist  ?  One  church  party  of  the  Christians  blames 
the  other ;  the  last  defends  itself  against  the 
first.  This  is  not  the  effect  of  conviction,  but  is 
caused  by  the  feeling  of  attachment  to  the 
faith  which  is  imbibed  with  the  mother's  milk. 
"  If  I  had  become  a  Lutheran,  the  Reformed, 
or  the  Catholics,  would  have  wished  to  convert 
me ;  had  I  turned  Catholic,  the  Lutheran  and 
Calvinist  would  have  thought  me  in  error. 
Each  church  takes  its  truth  and  dogmas  from 
the  same  book,  and  from  the  same  passages, 
which  are  differently  interpreted  by  another  ;  a 
strong  proof  that  the  fancies  and  opinions  of 
man  are  substituted  for  God's  words.  They  are 
united  only  upon  what  Christ  himself  has  given. 
But  Christ  gave  the  spirit ;  his  followers  add 
the  dead  letter,  which  is  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
pute. What  care  I  for  the  letter  ?  the  interpre- 
tation of  things  which  fail  to  elevate  my  soul  ? 
the  acceptance  of  doctrines  which  are  incom- 
prehensible ?  the  observance  of  solemnities 
which  are  arbitrary,  and  are  only  dependent  on 
the  degree  of  perception  or  the  climate  in  which 
the  people  live  who  observe  them  ?  Christ  is  a 
teacher  of  heavenly  things  ;  no  Moses,  no  later 
prophet,  no  rabbi,  no  pope  is  higher.  I  believe 
as  he  did,  I  will  live  as  he  did  ;  I  am  his  fol- 


220  ^scbofcfce's  Galee 

lower,  his  disciple.  In  this  sense  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian and  will  remain  one  ;  but  I  am  no  Catholic, 
Lutheran,  Zwinglianer,  Calvinist,  Mennonite, 
Greek,  Herrnhuter,  Socinian,  Baptist,  or  Mora- 
vian brother.  And  Christ  was  none  of  these ; 
according  to  his  own  confession,  he  was  a  Jew  ; 
so  am  I.  Christ  stood  immeasurably  higher 
than  Moses  ;  I  too,  through  Christ,  stand  higher 
than  Moses.  On  this  account  the  Mosaic  lawT 
has  lost  its  value  for  me,  as  it  no  longer  takes  its 
place  among  nations  and  states,  and  by  its 
duration  stands  in  opposition  to  the  age.  This, 
ye  beloved  ones,  is  my  confessiou  of  faith.  I 
cannot  enter  your  church  and  become  a  bap- 
tized, still  less  a  converted,  Jew.  None  of  your 
monks,  priests,  preachers,  bishops,  or  general 
superintendents  can  convert  me.  I  belong 
neither  to  the  English  nor  evangelical  reformed 
churches,  nor  to  a  so-called  community  of  breth- 
ren. I  am  in  fact  nothing  but  a  disciple  of 
Him,  whose  disciples  you  all  are,  even  if  you 
have  by  heart  the  Athanasian  or  Augsburg  con- 
fession of  faith.  I  am,  however,  no  disciple  of 
your  popes,  of  your  Luther,  or  of  your  Zwingli, 
because  I  believe  that  I  know  as  much  as  they 
of  the  glory  of  eternity,  and  of  the  way  to  seek 
a  closer  resemblance  to  God. 

"Judge  me  now,  ye  loved  ones.     You  cannot 
condemn  me  without  condemning  yourselves. 


5onatban  jfrocfc  221 

"  Rejected  by  the  people  to  whom  I  belong  ; 
rejected  by  the  Christian  on  account  of  my 
descent ;  among  Jews  and  Christians  I  am  a 
stranger.  I  belong  neither  to  a  domestic  circle, 
nor  to  a  civil  community.  I  am  religious,  yet 
am  I  persecuted  by  the  religious  societies  of 
men.  I  fear  to  resign  myself  to  the  delights 
of  friendship,  for  I  know  that  my  friends  would 
blush  at  reposing  confidence  in  a  Jew.  And 
could  a  maiden  love  me,  who  must  become  a 
Jews'  wife  ?  Though  I  remain  among  men,  I 
conceal  myself  from  them.  I  am  left  without  a 
home,  without  bread,  without  love,  because  the 
prejudices  of  the  world  close  the  door  of  happi- 
ness to  me. 

"Till  my  last  breath,  will  I  love  and  pity 
Josephine.  Pity,  because  I  am  guiltless  of 
her  suffering.  1  avoided  inspiring  her  with 
the  least  sympathy,  or  inclination  for  me.  If 
I  have  erred,  I  have  erred  in  being  too 
weak-minded  to  tear  myself  away  from  her, 
from  the  dear  Leonore,  and  the  venerable 
father.  Near  Josephine,  who  is  strong  enough 
or  fixed  enough  in  his  principles  to  resist  the 
magic  of  her  voice  ?  I  repent  my  fault  bitterly. 
I  was  happy  for  a  moment,  and  now  my  life-long 
must  be  unhappy.  I  fly,  but  with  a  torn,  bleed- 
ing heart.    Farewell. 

"Jonathan  Frock." 


222  %BCbokkefs  tTales 

Through  the  long  winter's  night  did  he  travel, 
and  in  a  feverish  state  of  excitement ;  the  whole 
of  next  day  without  stopping,  from  post  to  post ; 
the  second  day,  the  following  night,  until  he 
had  reached  the  place  of  his  destination,  where 
he  had  to  arrange  the  major's  business.  It  ap- 
peared as  if  he  intended  to  kill  himself.  But 
the  exertions  and  fatigue  produced  a  different 
effect  upon  him.  The  pressure  of  business  en- 
tirely prevented  his  giving  himself  up  to  the 
thoughts  of  the  past ;  in  the  bustle  and  confu- 
sion he  felt  his  grief  less  keenly ;  and  after 
some  days  a  feeling  of  deep  melancholy  only 
remained. 

He  could,  therefore,  devote  himself  with  the 
more  attention  and  energy  to  the  affairs  of 
Major  Von  Tulpen.  He  visited  the  claimants 
of  the  estate  ;  he  visited  the  magistrates.  The 
right  of  the  major  was  too  well-founded  not  to 
be  easily  proved  :  but  not  so  decided,  that  it 
could  not  afford  material  for  an  expensive  and 
tedious  trial,  which  was  much  more  ardently 
desired  by  the  judges,  officers,  waiters,  and  ad- 
vocates, than  by  the  major's  good-humored 
rival. 

Jonathan's  eloquence  and  pleasing  manners, 
won  upon  this  gentleman  so  much  that  he  was 
persuaded  to  accept  a  farm  near  the  city,  in  lieu 
of  prosecuting  his  claim  to  the  estate. 


3-onatban  frock  223 

For  this,  it  "was  necessary  to  obtain  the  writ- 
ten consent  of  the  major.  Jonathan  had  every 
week  sent  him  a  long  account  of  the  progress  of 
affairs.  No  letter  was  more  than  five  days  on  the 
road  ;  but  six  and  seven  weeks  passed,  without 
his  receiving  an  answer  from  the  major.  This 
gave  the  good  Frock  the  greatest  anxiety.  He 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  determined,  that 
if  within  a  fortnight  he  did  not  receive  an  an- 
swer to  the  letter  on  the  subject  of  giving  up 
the  farm,  to  return  to  the  metropolis,  happen 
what  mighty 

He  was  at  the  point  of  leaving  when  the 
major's  letter  arrived.  Trembling,  and  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Frock  broke  the  seal,  and 
kissed  the  characters  traced  by  the  dear  honored 
hand.     The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"  Dear  Jonathan  : — Thank  God,  we  are  all 
in  good  health.  My  Josephine  is  also  restored 
to  me.  I  have  signed  the  papers  concerning 
the  farm,  and  return  them  to  you.  The  story 
of  the  inheritance  is  now  at  an  end.  Write  to 
the  agent  on  the  estate,  that  he  must  have  every 
thing  in  order.  I  will  be  there  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  or  at  the  beginning  of  the  next,  with 
my  daughter  and  Leonore.  Josephine  is  well, 
and  intends  entering  a  convent.  I  know  not 
what  she  will  do  there.     She  has  taken  the  idea 


224  ^scbofcfce's  Galee 

in  her  head,  and  persists  in  it.  We  will  be  in 
Arrfeld  on  the  25th  of  this  month,  and  expect 
you  to  meet  us  at  the  inn.  Do  not  fail  to  do  so, 
or  you  will  kill  my  Josephine.  It  is  her  earnest 
desire  that  you  should  be  there.  And  when  we 
leave  for  the  convent,  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honor,  that  I  will  no  longer  detain  you,  if  you 
wish  to  leave  us.  But  if  you  wish  to  stay  with 
me,  Jonathan,  then  you  will  be  the  joy  of  my 
old  age.  What  has  just  passed  has  been  silly 
enough ;  so  do  not  fail  to  be  at  Arrfeld  on  the 
25th  of  this  month.  I  have  nothing  more  of 
importance  to  say  about  the  estate. 

"  I  remain  your  friend  and  David, 

"  Major  Von  Tui,pe;n." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  paper  Leonore  had 
added  the  following  lines  : 

"  Ah  !  dear  Herr  Frock,  you  caused  us  a  ter- 
rible night  of  suffering !  I  wish  I  may  never 
live  to  see  such  another  ;  but  Josephine  is  very 
well  again.  May  you,  through  the  influence 
of  your  religion,  be  as  quiet  and  composed  as 
Josephine  now  is.  The  great  blessings  of  reli- 
gion are  hereby  made  known.  Josephine's  only 
wish  is  to  see  and  speak  to  you  once  more.  In 
God's  name  !  do  not  disappoint  us,  if  you  still 
prize  our  friendship   and   esteem.     I  have  so 


3-onatban  tfrocfc  225 

much  more,  oh  !  so  much  more  to  say  to  you, 
but  cannot  now ;  you  shall  hear  it  all  in  Arrfeld. 
"Your  faithful  friend, 
"Leonore  Von  Tui^pen." 

This  letter  arrived  so  late,  that  there  was  no 
time  for  delay,  if  Frock  wished  to  reach  Arrfeld 
on  the  day  appointed.  Frock,  with  the  deed  of 
the  farm  in  his  hand,  received  the  act  of  renun- 
ciation to  the  estate  from  the  assenting  claim- 
ants, and  the  authority  of  the  magistrates  in 
favor  of  Major  Von  Tulpen's  immediately  tak- 
ing possession  of  the  property.  This  finished, 
Frock  hastened  to  the  appointed  place  of  meet- 
ing. 

The  journey  was  as  sad  to  him,  as  the  one  he 
had  made  when  he  left  the  beloved  family.  He 
only  knew,  in  part,  Josephine's  suffering,  and 
the  melancholy  effect  of  it,  from  her  determi- 
nation to  forsake  the  world.  He  looked  forward 
to  a  heartrending  separation,  but  nothing  could 
prevent  his  complying  with  Josephine's  request. 
If  he,  too,  could  only  atone  for  her  sufferings 
all  his  life,  so  much  the  better. 

The  evening  had  scarce  closed  in,  when  he 
reached  the  inn  in  Arrfeld.  He  learned  that  the 
major  with  his  family  had  arrived  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  had  proceeded  to  the  priest's,  at  theMa- 
rienkloster.    There  they  awaited  Herr  Frock. 


226  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

A  messenger  went  to  inform  the  major  im- 
mediately of  Frock's  arrival,  and  on  his  return 
was  to  let  Frock  know,  whether  he  should  await 
the  major's  arrival,  or  repair  to  the  convent. 
More  than  an  hour  elapsed  ;  Frock  was  in  the 
greatest  anxiety.  At  length  the  messenger  re- 
turned, to  beg  that  he  would  go  to  St.  Marie's. 

Frock  jumped  into  the  wagon.  How  his  heart 
beat,  as,  by  the  uncertain  light  of  the  moou, 
he  beheld  the  far-extending  walls  and  towers  of 
the  convent ;  and  as  he  passed  through  a  long 
shady  avenue  of  tall  elms  and  lindens.  When 
the  wagon  stopped  before  a  house  belonging  to 
the  convent,  Frock  got  out ;  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  church-bells  began  to  ring  with  a 
hollow  melancholy  sound.  The  major  came 
out  of  the  house.  A  servant-woman  brought  a 
candle,  followed  by  a  man  carrying  a  lantern. 
The  major  embraced  his  Jonathan  with  much 
emotion.  Frock,  overpowered  by  grief,  could 
not  speak. 

"Is  it  not  true,"  said  the  major,  "that  you 
like  my  Josephine  ?  "  Frock,  unable  to  answer, 
pressed  the  major's  hand  in  silence.  "  Go  be- 
fore," said  the  major  to  the  servant,  "and  light 
the  way.  Give  me  your  arm,  Jonathan  ;  be  the 
support  of  my  old  age.  We  are  now  going  to 
her." 

They  proceeded  together  through  the  empty 


3-onatban  3-rock  227 

court  of  the  convent,  and  the  cold  silent  cross- 
ways.  The  dim  light  of  the  evening  tapers  fell 
on  the  priest,  who  stood  praying  at  the  altar. 
Some  peasants  were  kneeling  in  the  church. 
When  the  major  entered,  leaning  on  Frock's 
arm,  Josephine,  supported  by  Leonore,  came 
towards  them  with  downcast  eyes.  She  held 
out  her  trembling  hand  to  the  agitated  Frock. 
They  stood  before  the  priest,  who,  raising  his 
voice,  went  through  the  marriage  ceremony. 
Frock  knew  not  where  he  was  ;  he  was  quite 
bewildered. 

When  the  service  was  over,  they  went  out  of 
the  church  in  the  same  order  in  which  they  en- 
tered, excepting  that  the  major's  married  daugh- 
ter (not  he  himself)  took  Frock's  arm.  But 
when  they  reached  the  court,  overcome  by  what 
had  passed,  Frock  fell  at  Josephine's  feet  with 
upraised  hands.  All  wept.  Such  tears  of  joy 
had  never  been  shed  in  the  convent  since  its 
foundation. 

Josephine  drew  the  beloved  one  toward  her, 
and  whispered,  ''Thou  art  mine."  In  these 
words,  a  new  life  of  blessed  happiness  was 
opened  to  the  patient  sufferer,  Jonathan.  He 
found  himself  embraced,  at  the  same  moment, 
by  both  the  major  and  L,eonore.  The  gray- 
haired  priest  stood  near,  unobserved  by  them. 
He  had  been  a  companion  of  the  major's,  in  his 


228  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

youth,  and  had  willingly  given  his  assistance 
upon  this  happy  occasion.  He  accompanied 
them  back  to  the  inn,  where  the  major  had  or- 
dered the  wedding-dinner  to  be  prepared. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  the  priest  to  the  de- 
lighted bridegroom,  "do  you  think,  you  half- 
Christians,  you  reason  in  a  more  Christian-like 
manner,  than  we  who,  '  Of  a  truth  know,  that 
God  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  in  every 
nation,  he  that  feareth  him,  and  worketh  right- 
eousness, is  accepted  with  him. '  '  Not  every  one 
that  saith  unto  me,  Lord,  Lord,  shall  enter  into 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  but  he  that  doeth  the 
will  of  my  Father,  which  is  in  heaven,  the  same 
is  my  disciple.'  '  By  our  fruits  are  we  known.' 
By  these  have  we  known  you."  H. 


WALPURGIS   NIGHT 


WALPURGIS  NIGHT. 


THE  TEMPTKR. 

I  FOUND  myself  in  Prague  on  business,  far 
from  home.  It  was  in  April.  Whatever 
pleasant  diversion  there  might  be  for  me,  I 
could  not  suppress  home-sickness  for  our  little 
town  where  my  little  wife  had  already  for  seven 
weeks  hoped  for  my  return  home.  We  had  never 
been  separated  so  long  since  the  day  of  our  mar- 
riage. It  is  true  Fannie  wrote  to  me  regularly 
every  week  ;  but  her  letters,  full  of  love,  desire, 
and  melancholy,  were  oil  to  the  fire.  I  wished 
Prague  and  the  Nepomuck,  thirty-four  leagues 
northeast,  behind  me.  He  who  has  not  a  lovely 
wife  of  two  and  twenty  years,  charming  as  love, 
played  about  by  two  blooming  gods  of  love  ;  he 
who  is  not  five  hundred  times  more  in  love  with 
such  a  being  after  five  years  of  marriage  than  on 
the  wedding-day,  in  vain  shall  I  tell  him  of  my 
longing  for  home. 

At  any  rate,    I  thanked  Heaven  exultingly 
when  the  business  at  last  was  finished.     I  took 


232  ^scbokfce's  Gales 

leave  of  my  few  acquaintances  and  friends,  and 
told  the  landlord  to  give  me  my  bill.  The  next 
day  I  was  to  depart  by  post. 

On  the  morning  of  departure  appeared  the 
landlord,  obediently  waiting  upon  me  with  the 
voluminous  bill.  I  had  not  enough  change  to 
pay  my  debt,  and  for  use  on  the  way  ;  it  was 
necessary  to  cash  a  note  of  hand.  I  felt  for  my 
pocket-book,  and  looked  for  it  in  all  pockets  and 
corners.  It  was  gone.  This  was  bad  enough 
for  me  ;  for  there  were  fourteen  hundred  thalers 
in  it,  and  that  is  surely  no  trifle. 

It  did  not  help  me  at  all  that  I  made  the 
rounds  of  the  room, — the  pocket-book  remained 
lost. 

"  I  might  have  thought  it,"  said  I  to  myself. 
"If  a  man  is  happy  for  one  moment  of  his  life, 
there  sits  the  Devil  behind  the  hedge,  and  plays 
him  a  trick.  One  ought  to  rejoice  over  nothing 
in  this  world,  and  then  he  would  have  less  anx- 
iety and  vexation.  I  have  often  experienced  it 
already." 

Either  the  pocket-book  was  lost  or  stolen.  I 
had  had  it  the  day  before  in  my  hands.  I  liked 
to  carry  it  with  me  in  the  breast-pocket  of  my 
overcoat.  Fannie's  letters  were  in  it  too.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  felt  it  the  evening 
before  when  I  was  undressing. 

How  was  I  to  get  possession  of  my  much- 


Walpurgts  Might  233 

prized  papers  again  ?  Whoever  had  them  could 
at  will  change  them  any  hour  for  gold  or  silver. 
Then  I  began  to  swear,  which  at  other  times 
is  not  my  besetting  sin.  If  the  Devil  were  going 
around  as  in  the  good  old  times,  even  if  it  were 
like  a  roaring  lion,  I  would  on  the  spot  have 
made  a  compact  with  him.  While  I  thought 
this,  there  occurred  to  me  a  figure  which  I  had 
seen  eight  days  before  at  a  billiard-room,  in  a 
buttoned-up  red  coat,  who  had  then  seemed  to 
me  like  a  prince  of  hell  become  a  man.  A  cold 
shudder  ran  over  me.  And  still  I  was  so  des- 
perate that  I  thought :  "  For  aught  I  care,  and 
even  if  it  were  he,  he  would  be  very  welcome  to 
me  now,  if  he  would  only  call  my  pocket-book 
back  again."  At  this  moment  there  was  a  knock 
at  my  door.  "  Hello  ! ' '  thought  I,  ' '  the  Tempter 
will  make  earnest  of  a  joke."  Iran  to  the  door, 
having  in  my  mind  the  ill-omened  Red  Coat, 
and  suspicious,  really,  that  he  might  be  there, 
and  behold  !  wonderful  surprise  !  As  I  opened 
the  door  there  entered,  with  a  careless  nod  of  the 
head,  the  Tempter,  of  whom  I  was  thinking. 

DESCRIPTION. 

I  MUST  tell  you  where  and  how  I  had  become 
acquainted  with  this  apparition,  so  that  you 
shall  not  think  I  am  superstitious.     One  even- 


234  Zecbokke'e  Gales 

ing  I  had  gone  into  a  coffee-house  or  casino  of 
Neustadt,  where  once  before  I  had  been  with  a 
friend  to  play  billiards.  I  wished  to  find  the 
latest  newspapers.  At  a  table  sat  two  gentlemen 
deeply  engaged  in  their  game  of  chess.  A  few 
young  men  sat  at  a  window  in  lively  conversa- 
tion concerning  ghosts  and  the  nature  of  the 
human  soul.  A  little  old  man  in  a  scarlet  coat 
promenaded  up  and  down  the  room  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back.  I  called  for  a  glass  of 
Dantzig  water  and  the  newspaper.  No  one  ex- 
cited my  attention  so  much  as  this  scarlet-coated 
promenader.  I  even  forgot  the  newspaper  and 
the  Spanish  war.  There  was  in  his  dress  a  cer- 
tain carelessness,  and  in  his  form,  movements, 
and  in  the  features  of  his  face,  something  strik- 
ing and  repulsive.  He  was  of  less  than  medium 
height,  but  firmly  knit  and  broad-shouldered. 
He  might  have  been  fifty  or  sixty  years  of  age, 
and  walked  with  his  head  bowed  like  an  old 
man.  Black  and  shining  hair  hung  smooth  and 
thin  upon  his  head.  The  dark-yellow  face,  with 
hawk-nose  and  protruding  cheek-bones,  gave  an 
uncanny  look.  Whilst  all  his  features  were  cold 
as  iron,  his  great  eyes  shone  piercingly  like  the 
eyes  of  a  high-spirited  youth,  but  without  any 
enthusiasm  or  feeling.  This  man,  thought  I  to 
myself,  was  born  a  criminal  judge,  or  chief  in- 
quisitor, or  robber  captain,  or  gypsy  king.     For 


Walpurgtg  IRigbt  235 

amusement  such  a  man  would  set  a  city  in 
flames,  and  gaze  upon  children  tossed  upon 
spears.  I  would  not  like  to  ride  alone  with 
him  in  the  wood.  Never  in  his  life  has  he  been 
able  to  laugh.  But  I  erred.  He  could  laugh. 
Listening  to  the  young  men  in  the  window  he 
laughed.  God  help  me  !  what  a  laugh  that  was  ! 
It  ran  through  me  like  a  chill.  The  evil  joy  of 
hell  seemed  to  play  upon  all  his  features.  If 
that  man  in  the  scarlet  coat  is  not  the  Devil,  I 
thought,  then,  he  must  be  his  brother.  Involun- 
tarily I  looked  at  his  feet  to  see  if  he  had  the 
well-known  horse-hoofs.  True  enough,  while  he 
had  one  human  foot  like  ours,  his  left  was  a  club- 
foot in  a  cork  shoe.  Still  he  did  not  limp,  and 
he  stepped  gliding  along  as  though  upon  thin 
ice  which  he  did  not  wish  to  break  through. 
Why,  for  cash  in  hand,  he  could  exhibit  himself, 
and  make  everybody  in  the  world  superstitious. 
The  Spanish  war  I  forgot  altogether.  I  held 
the  newspaper  before  me,  but  I  was  glancing 
over  it  so  as  to  still  observe  this  remarkable 
figure. 

He  passed  by  the  chess  table  just  as  one  of 
the  players  said  with  triumph  to  his  mournful 
and  despondent  opponent,  "You  are  certainly 
beaten." 

Scarlet  Coat  stopped  for  a  minute,  and,  cast- 
ing a  glance  over  the  game,  said  to  the  victor  : 


236  2:scbofcke's  Gales 

"You  are  blind  ;  in  three  moves  you  will  re- 
ceive a  checkmate." 

The  victor  laughed  confidently  ;  his  opponent 
shook  his  head  doubting,  but  on  the  third  play 
the  intended  victor  was  in  fact  checkmated. 
Whilst  the  players  again  arranged  the  pieces  for 
another  game,  one  of  the  young  men  at  the 
window  said  in  an  excited  voice  to  the  Scarlet 
Coat :  "  Sir,  you  laugh  !  Our  contention  seems 
to  interest  you,  but  your  laughter  indicates  that 
you  are  of  an  opposite  opinion  concerning  the 
nature  of  the  World  and  the  Divinity  ;  have 
you  read  Schilling  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  Scarlet  Coat. 

"  Well,  what  does  your  laughing  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  Schilling  is  a  sharp-sighted  poet  who 
holds  the  creations  of  his  own  imagination  as 
true,  while  nobody  can  oppose  him  except  with 
other  fantasies,  which  must  be  defended  with 
still  greater  acuteness.  The  philosophers  of 
to-day  are  just  as  the}7  have  always  been, — blind 
men  disputing  over  theories  of  color ;  deaf  men 
discussing  the  art  of  pure  tone  and  music.  Alex- 
ander has  laid  a  pontoon  bridge  to  the  moon  in 
order  to  plunder  it,  and  the  philosophers,  dis- 
satisfied in  the  sphere  of  reason,  endeavor  to  get 
beyond  its  bounds." 

So  spoke  he  of  the  Scarlet  Coat.  Clamor 
arose,  but  he  did  not  stop.   Taking  up  his  round 


tKflalpurgfs  IRtgbt  237 

hat  he  disappeared.  Since  that  time  I  had  not 
seen  him  again,  but  I  had  not  forgotten  the 
striking  figure  and  devilish  physiognomy,  and  I 
was  afraid  to  see  him  in  my  dreams. 

THE  TEMPTATION. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "  if  I  disturb  you. 
Have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Robert ?  " 

"I  am  indeed  he,"  replied  I. 

' '  How  do  you  prove  it  ?  " 

' '  Singular  question  that, ' '  said  I  to  myself  ; 
' '  doubtless  he  is  a  police  spy. ' '  There  lay  upon 
my  table  a  half-torn  letter  ;  I  showed  it  to  him, 
addressed  to  me  upon  the  outside. 

"Good!"  said  he;  "but  you  have  a  name 
which  is  so  common,  that  you  can  find  similar 
ones  in  all  the  corners  of  Germany  amongst  the 
Germans  and  Poles  ;  give  me  some  particulars. 
I  have  some  business  with  you  ;  I  have  been 
directed  to  you." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  "  pardon  me  ;  I  cannot 
at  the  moment  think  about  business  ;  I  am 
about  to  go  away,  and  I  have  a  thousand  things 
to  think  of.  Moreover,  doubtless  you  are  in 
error  about  my  person,  fori  am  neither  a  states- 
man nor  a  merchant." 

He  measured  me  with  his  great  eyes  and 
said  :  "  So  !  "  then  he  was  silent  and  seemed  to 


238  Zechokke'e  tlalea 

think  to  himself,  but  began  again  :  "  You  have 
been  doing  some  business  in  Prague  ;  was  not 
your  brother  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy  ?  " 

The  blood  mounted  to  my  face,  for  I  believed 
that  no  soul  knew  any  thing  about  this  matter 
besides  my  brother  and  myself,  and  again  the 
tempter  laughed  with  his  fearful  laugh. 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  are  again  in  error,"  I  said  ; 
"  it  is  true  I  have  a  brother,  and  more  than  one, 
but  neither  of  them  has  bankruptcy  to  fear." 

"So  !  "  murmured  the  tempter,  and  his  feat- 
ures became  again  hard  and  like  iron. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  with  some  feeling,  for 
it  was  unpleasant  to  me  that  anybody  in  Prague 
knew  any  thing  about  my  brother's  circum- 
stances, and  I  was  afraid  that  this  sly  fellow 
wished  to  look  over  my  game  just  as  he  had 
over  the  game  of  chess  in  the  coffee-house, 
"you  certainly  are  addressing  the  wrong  per- 
son ;  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me  when  I 
request  that  you  be  as  short  as  possible  ;  I  have 
no  minute  to  lose." 

"  Indulge  me  for  one  moment ;  it  is  import- 
ant for  me  to  talk  with  you  ;  you  seem  dis- 
quieted and  at  a  loss  ;  has  any  thing  unpleasant 
befallen  you  ?  You  are  a  stranger  here.  In- 
deed I  do  not  myself  belong  to  Prague,  and 
this  is  the  first  time  in  twelve  years  that  I 
have  seen  the  city  again,  but  I  know  how  to 


Walpurgis  Ifttgbt  230 

give  good  advice.  Trust  me  !  You  have  the 
countenance  of  an  honest  man  ;  do  you  want 
money?  "  Then  he  laughed,  or  rather  grinned 
again,  as  though  he  wanted  to  purchase  my 
soul. 

His  actions  were  more  and  more  suspicious 
to  me.  I  looked  with  horror  at  his  club-foot, 
and,  in  fact,  was  coming  to  superstitious  dread. 
Under  no  circumstances  would  I  put  confidence 
in  this  suspected  man. 

I  said  :  "  No,  I  do  not  want  any  money ; 
since,  however,  you  so  magnanimously  offer  it 
to  me,  my  dear  sir,  may  I  beg  to  know  your 
name." 

"  My  name  would  be  of  no  consequence,"  he 
replied.  "It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
I  am  a  Mannteuffel ;  does  the  name  give  you  any 
more  confidence  ?  " 

"  Man-Devil  !  "  I  thought,  and  in  my  confu- 
sion I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  whether  the 
whole  thing  was  in  earnest  or  merely  a  joke.  At 
this  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door ; 
the  landlord  appeared  and  brought  me  a  letter 
which  had  come  from  the  post-office. 

"First  read  your  letter,"  said  the  Scarlet 
Coat  ;  "  afterwards  we  can  speak  further  ; 
doubtless  the  letter  is  from  your  amiable 
Fanny." 

I  was  more  confused  than  ever. 


240  ^scbokfce's  tlates 

"Now,"  continued  the  stranger,  with  a  gri- 
mace, "  now  do  you  know  who  I  am  and  what 
I  want  of  you  ?  " 

The  words  came  to  my  lips  :  "I  believe  that 
you  are  Satan,  and  you  desire  to  breakfast  on 
my  poor  soul."     Still  I  restrained  myself. 

"One  thing  more,"  he  said  ;  "you  wish  to 
travel  to  Eger  ?  good  !  my  journey  goes  through 
that  village.  To-morrow  I  set  out ;  will  you 
accept  a  seat  in  my  carriage  ?  ' ' 

I  thanked  him  and  said  :  "I  have  already 
ordered  a  post-chaise." 

Then  he  was  more  unquiet,  and  said  :  "It  is 
impossible  to  get  at  you,  but  your  Fanny  and 
little  Leopold  and  August  I  must  learn  to  know 
as  I  pass  by.  Do  you  not  imagine  who  I  am 
and  what  I  want  ?  In  the  Devil's  name,  my 
dear  sir,  I  wish  to  do  you  good  service." 

I  replied  at  last  :  "  If  you  are  a  witch,  master, 
my  pocket-book  has  been  taken  from  me.  Ad- 
vise me  how  I  can  get  it  again." 

"  Bah  !  What  consequence  is  a  pocket-book  ? 
Can  I  not  do  any  thing  more  for  you  ?  " 

"In  my  pocket-book  were  my  papers,  worth 
over  fourteen  hundred  thalers.  Advise  me  what 
I  have  to  do  if  it  is  lost,  and  what  I  am  to  do 
if  it  has  been  stolen." 

"What  was  the  appearance  of  this  pocket- 
book?" 


Malpurgts  Iftisbt  241 

"  It  was  of  silk  covering,  embroidered  bright- 
green,  and  my  name  upon  it  in  flowers  ;  it  was 
worked  by  my  wife.  The  cover  is  worth  more 
than  the  fourteen  hundred  thalers  !  " 

He  laughed  again  with  his  fearful  friendli- 
ness, and  then  continued  :  "  Counsel  must  be 
taken  ;  what  will  you  give  me  if  I  restore  your 
loss  ?  "  With  these  words  he  looked  at  me  so 
sharply  and  in  such  a  singular  way,  as  though 
he  expected  me  to  answer  that  I  would  give 
him  my  soul ;  but  as  I  still  remained  quiet  he 
put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  my 
pocket-book. 

"  There  you  have  your  treasure  and  your 
fourteen  hundred  thalers  with  all  that  belongs 
to  it." 

I  was  beside  myself.  "  How  did  you  come  by 
it?  "  I  cried.  I  examined  it,  and  I  found  there 
was  nothing  wanting. 

"Yesterday  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  I 
found  it  on  the  Moldau  Bridge,  and  picked  it 
up." 

"  That 's  right ;  about  the  same  time  I  passed 
over  the  bridge  ;  and  I  had  the  pocket-book  in 
my  hands  and  put  it  back  into  my  pocket." 

' '  Probably  you  put  it  down  beside  your 
pocket,"  said  the  Scarlet  Coat ;  "  but  I  did  not 
know  whether  what  I  had  found  had  been  lost 
by  a  person  on  horseback  or  some  one  walking, 


242  flecbokke's  £ales 

or  whether  by  some  person  in  front  of  me  or 
behind  me.  I  remained  awhile  on  the  bridge 
waiting  for  some  person  looking  for  it.  Nobody 
came  ;  I  went  back  to  my  inn.  I  read  the  con- 
tents of  the  letters  in  order  to  find  out  who  was 
the  loser.  One  address  gave  me  your  name, 
and  showed  me  that  you  were  at  this  hotel  ;  so 
I  came  here  to  seek  yon  ;  I  was  here  yesterday 
evening,  but  I  did  not  find  you." 

Great  God  !  How  easy  it  is  for  a  man  to 
deceive  himself  wTith  physiognomy.  I  could 
have  embraced  my  Mannteuffel.  I  expressed 
my  obligations  many  times  over  ;  my  joy  was 
as  excessive  as  before  had  been  my  vexation, 
but  he  did  not  wTish  to  hear  of  it.  I  vowed  to 
myself  that,  through  all  my  life  long,  I  never 
again  would  trust  my  judgment  of  physiog- 
nomy. 

"  Give  my  compliments  to  your  charming 
Fanny,  and  a  pleasant  journey  to  you  !  We 
will  see  each  other  again."  he  said,  and  he  left 
me. 

RETURN   HOME. 

Now  I  was  ready  to  break  away  and  depart. 
I  paid  the  landlord.  My  servant  with  my  trunk 
went  out  before  me.  I  passed  down  the  stairs 
as  my  brother  came  up  the  stairs,  he  for  whom 
I  had  come  to  Prague.     I  could  not  leave.     We 


matpurgis  IRigbt  243 

returned  to  my  room,  when  I  heard  with  pleas- 
ure that  the  failing  business  affairs  of  my  brother 
were  changed  to  advantage.  Through  a  great 
speculation  in  cotton  and  coffee  he  had  recouped 
his  loss  six  times  over.  He  had  hurried  to  Prague 
in  order  to  settle  his  affairs  himself.  "  Now," 
said  he,  "I  have  landed  all  my  sheep  on  dry 
ground,  but  what  anxiety  have  I  lived  through. 
I  shall  say  farewell  to  business  ;  I  will  place  my 
money  on  moderate  interest,  so  that  I  shall  not 
incur  the  chance  of  being  to-day  a  millionaire, 
to-morrow  a  fugitive  beggar,  and  dishonest.  I 
have  come  to  thank  you  for  your  brotherly 
assistance  and  to  settle  my  affairs  with  my 
people." 

It  was  necessary  for  me  to  accompany  him  to 
a  number  of  houses,  but  he  discovered  my 
impatience  and  my  home-sickness,  and  after  a 
few  days  advised  me  to  return  without  him. 
I  did  so,  for  his  detention  in  Prague  would  con- 
tinue a  number  of  weeks.  I  ordered  "extra- 
post,"  and  flew  towards  my  loved  home.  Ever 
and  anon  there  came  to  my  thoughts  that  most 
peculiar  Mannteuffel.  Never  could  I  forget  his 
figure  in  the  scarlet  coat,  his  club-foot,  and  the 
disadvantages  of  his  features.  I  recalled  also 
that  a  lock  of  his  black  hair  seemed  to  stand 
up  from  his  forehead.  Perhaps  he  had  a  little 
horn  under  it,   and  then  he  would  be  a  real 


244  ^ecbofcfce's  tTales 

Beelzebub  from  his  crown   to   the  sole  of  his 
feet. 

It  is  true  that  he  brought  my  pocket-book 
back  again.  No  man  in  the  world  could  be 
more  honorable.  He  had  read  Fanny's  letters 
and  the  instructions  which  my  brother  had 
given  me,  so  he  was  well  informed  in  my  se- 
crets. But  that  face  !  No  !  Nature  never  de- 
scribes herself  in  illegible  characters.  Enough, 
if  at  any  time  I  had  had  any  faith  in  the  exist- 
tence  of  a  Mephistopheles,  this  time  I  could 
not  have  doubted.  I  gave  play  to  these 
thoughts,  and  do  not  deny  that  willingly  I  dal- 
lied with  them  in  my  imagination,  for  I  lacked 
occupation.  I  imagined  that  my  honorable 
Mannteuffel  might  indeed  be  a  genuine  devil. 
His  honesty  might  be  a  matter  of  cunning,  in 
order  to  snatch  away  my  poor  soul  from  heaven 
and  if  it  was  so,  what  could  he  offer  to  me,  or 
what  price  would  he  bid  ?  Could  he  offer  me 
money  or  property  ?  I  was  not  avaricious.  A 
throne  ?  Well,  I  might  have  enjoyed  it  for  a 
week,  in  order  to  give  peace  to  the  world,  and 
then  afterwards  I  would  withdraw  myself  into 
my  modest  estate,  like  a  second  Cincinnatus, 
to  cultivate  beets  with  my  own  hands.  A  harem 
full  of  beautiful  Helens,  Armides,  and  Amandas? 
No  !  When  I  thought  on  Fanny  the  most  at- 
tractive beauties  of  Circassia.  seemed  to  me  like 


TlBlalpurGis  IWgbt  245 

old  women.  I  would  not  have  given  a  straw  to 
be  Dr.  Faust.  Why  should  I  ?  I  was  happy. 
No !  Not  altogether  so,  because  I  had  been  so 
happy  that  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  friend  Death, 
the  skeleton,  that  with  his  cursed  scythe  he 
might  cut  away  from  me  my  Fanny,  my  two 
sons,  might  take  me,  and  it  would  be  a  great 
question  whether  we  should  ever  find  ourselves 
together  again  in  Paradise.  I  indeed  cast  a 
look  into  the  future,  in  order  to  quiet  myself, 
but  certainly  my  devil  had  fulfilled  a  pious  wish 
for  me  and  had  permitted  me  a  glance  through 
the  opening  of  the  doors  of  heaven.  What 
could  a  subject  of  Adramelich  have  shewn  me 
besides  this,  unless  his  hell  ?  But  enough  of 
this  foolishness.  I  was  two  days  on  the  jour- 
ney from  Prague  to  my  village.  The  second 
day,  late  in  the  evening,  I  scolded  and  spurred 
on  the  post-boys,  urging  them  with  words  and 
with  money.  The  day  grew  later,  and  I  was 
consumed  with  longing.  It  was  almost  a  quar- 
ter of  a  year  that  I  had  not  seen  Fanny  or  my 
children,  who  blossomed  about  the  young 
mother  like  two  rosebuds  about  a  hardly  open 
rose.  I  trembled  with  longing  when  I  thought 
that  my  wife,  the  most  lovely  of  her  sex,  this 
day  would  be  in  my  arms. 

It  is    true,    before   I  had  learned  to   know 
Fanny  I  had  been  in  love.     There  was  a  cer- 


246  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

tain  Julie,  who  had  been  turned  from  me  by  the 
pride  of  her  parents,  and  had  been  married  to 
a  rich  Polish  nobleman.  Our  love  had  for 
both  of  us  bordered  on  mutual  deification  and 
frenzy.  Even  in  the  hour  of  parting  we  had 
sworn  to  each  other  everlasting  love  during  life 
and  in  the  grave,  and  we  had  sealed  it  with 
kisses  and  tears.  But  you  know  how  it  hap- 
pens. She  became  Lady  Starostin  and  I  mar- 
ried Fanny.  My  love  for  Fanny  was  more 
holy,  riper,  and  more  tender.  Julie  was  once 
the  divinity  of  my  fancy,  but  Fanny  was  the 
cherished  idol  of  my  heart. 

The  clock  of  the  home  village  sounded  one 
as  we  drove  into  the  sleeping  street.  I  got  out 
at  the  Post  House,  and  left  the  servant  with  my 
trunks.  I  wended  my  way  to  the  suburbs  of 
the  town,  where  stood  my  friendly  house  in  the 
shade  of  a  great  nut  tree,  the  windows  glimmer- 
ing in  the  moonlight  before  my  eyes  from  a 
distance,  and  determined  to  return  if  I  should 
find  every  one  asleep. 

HATEFUL  VISIT. 

Aix  asleep.  Oh  !  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  Had  you 
been  awake  how  much  grief  and  horror  would 
have  been  spared  to  me.  They  were  asleep,  my 
wife,  my  children,  my  household.     Nowhere  a 


Walpursfe  IRigbt  247 

light.  Ten  times  I  wandered  around  the  house  ; 
every  part  was  closed.  I  did  not  wish  to  wake 
them  out  of  sleep.  Better  the  charm  of  return 
for  souls  refreshed  by  slumber,  than  the  im- 
pressions of  feverish  midnight.  Happily  I 
found  that  the  garden-house  door  was  open, 
and  I  entered  there.  Upon  the  table  was  the 
work-basket  of  my  Fanny.  In  the  moonlight 
I  saw  on  the  floor  and  upon  the  chairs  the  play- 
horses,  the  trumpet,  and  the  whip  of  my  chil- 
dren. Doubtless  they  had  spent  the  afternoon 
in  this  place,  and  how  pleasant  to  me  were 
these  things,  as  though  I  was  amongst  my 
loved  ones.  I  stretched  myself  on  the  sofa  and 
determined  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  night  there. 
The  air  was  mild,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
blossoming  trees  and  growing  plants  came  into 
the  room. 

Whoever  has  been  without  sleep  forty  hours 
finds  any  couch  a  soft  one.  I  soon  dropped  into 
slumber  from  over-fatigue.  Hardly  had  I 
closed  my  eyes,  when  a  creaking  of  the  garden- 
house  door  awoke  me.  I  sat  up  and  saw  a  man 
enter ;  I  thought  it  was  a  thief.  But  imagine 
my  astonishment,  it  was  my  friend  of  the  scar- 
let coat." 

"Where  do  you  come  from,"  said  I. 

"  From  Prague,  and  in  half  an  hour  I  depart 
again.     In  going  by,  I  wished  to  see  you  and 


248  ^scbofcfee's  {Tales 

your  Fanny,  in  order  to  keep  my  promise. 
From  your  servant  I  learned  that  you  had  just 
arrived,  and  thought  I  should  find  everybody 
awake  in  your  house.  It  is  not  possible  that 
you  are  going  to  sleep  in  this  damp  place? 
You  will  sleep  yourself  into  sickness." 

I  walked  with  him  out  into  the  garden,  trem- 
bling in  every  limb,  so  shocked  was  I  with  his 
singular  appearance.  It  is  true  that  in  the 
quiet  of  my  breast  I  made  light  of  my  supersti- 
tious fear,  but  after  all  I  could  not  rid  myself 
of  it.  So  is  man  created.  The  hard  features 
of  my  friend  from  Prague,  in  the  deceptive 
moonlight,  were  more  horrible  than  ever,  and 
his  eyes  far  more  piercing. 

"  Really  you  have  frightened  me  as  a  ghost," 
said  I ;  "  my  whole  body  trembles.  How  came 
it  that  you  sought  me  in  the  garden-house  ? 
You  seem  to  know  every  thing." 

An  evil  grimace  passed  over  his  face  and  he 
said  :  "  Do  you  know  me  and  what  I  want  from 
you?" 

" Truly,"  said  I,  "I  know  you  now  no  better 
than  I  did  in  Prague,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
jest  I  will  tell  you  how  you  appeared  to  me 
there;  don't  think  evil  of  it.  I  thought  if  you 
were  not  a  witch-master,  you  might  well  be  the 
Devil  himself." 

He  grinned  again  and  replied  :  "  Well,  for 


Walpurgis  IRigbt  249 

the  joke's  sake,  suppose  I  was  the  last  named, 
would  you  make  a  bargain  with  me  ?  " 

"You  must  offer  me  a  good  deal  before  I 
bargain,  for  in  truth,  Mr.  Devil  (permit  me  to 
name  you  so  for  joke's  sake),  my  good-fortune 
is  perfect." 

"  Oh !  ho  !  I  would  offer  you  nothing,  give 
you  nothing.  That  was  an  old-times  affair 
when  people  still  believed  in  the  Devil,  and  they 
bowed  themselves  before  him  as  though  one 
had  to  surrender  to  him,  but  now  when  nobody 
believes  in  the  Devil,  and  with  reason  every 
thing  is  put  to  rights.  The  children  of  men  are 
too  cheap." 

"  I  hope  it  is  different  with  me,  even  though 
I  consider  Beelzebub  is  an  idle  tale.  An  ounce 
of  reason  gives  more  virtue  than  a  ton  of  devil's 
faith." 

"  So  it  is  your  proud  security  !  You  mortals 
(permit  me  to  speak  in  this  role),  you  give 
yourselves  to  me  ;  your  proud  security  brings 
more  recruits  to  hell  than  a  whole  legion  of 
workers  in  Satan's  uniform.  Since  you  have 
yourselves  undertaken  to  hold  eternity  for  a 
problem  and  hell  for  an  Oriental  fable  ;  since 
you  have  explained  foolishness  for  virtues  like 
Kalliber's,  lust  for  an  amiable  weakness,  selfish- 
ness for  greatness  of  mind,  the  general  good  as 
foolishness,  refined  cunning  as  worldly  wisdom, 


250  ^scbofefce's  Gales 

nobody  in  hell  is  longer  at  any  pains  to  cap- 
ture you.  You  come  of  your  own  accord.  You 
have  reason  on  your  lips,  but  the  flower  of  a 
hundred  passions  in  your  heart.  The  holiest 
among  you  is  unnerved  when  there  is  the 
smallest  opportunity  to  sin." 

"You  have  spoken  in  devilish  fashion,"  I 
exclaimed. 

"Well,"  replied  the  Red  Master,  and  he 
grinned  once  more,  "I  speak  truth,  for  your 
people  no  longer  believe  in  it.  When  truth 
was  still  holy  to  man,  Satan  was  the  father 
of  lies.  Now  he  is  the  opposite.  We  poor 
devils  are  always  the  antipodes  of  human 
beings." 

"In  this  respect,  at  least,  you  are  not  my 
opponent,  for  I  think  as  you  do,  my  philo- 
sophical Devil." 

"Good!  Already  you  belong  tome.  Who- 
ever reaches  a  hair  to  me  I  have  his  whole  head. 
But  it  is  cool  here.  My  carriage  is  ready,  I  must 
depart,  so  good-by." 

He  went,  and  I  accompanied  him  to  the  post- 
house  where  his  post-chaise  was  waiting. 

He  said:  "I  thought  you  would  come  into 
the  house  for  a  glass  of  punch  with  me,  and 
ordered  it  before  I  went  to  your  place." 

I  accepted  his  invitation,  glad  to  get  into  a 
warm  room. 


tiiaalpurcjts  IRigbt  251 

THE    TEMPTATION. 

The  punch  stood  upon  the  table  as  we  en- 
tered the  room .  A  stranger  traveller,  tired  and 
grim,  was  walking  up  and  down,  a  tall  man, 
thin  and  old.  On  the  chairs  were  some  baggage, 
a  woman's  shawl,  and  a  straw  hat  with  a  lady's 
gloves.  As  we  drank,  the  stranger  said  to  a 
servant  who  came  in  to  take  the  baggage  away  : 
"  Tell  my  wife  when  she  comes  that  I  have  gone 
to  bed." 

I  did  not  wish  to  return  to  the  cold  garden- 
house,  and  ordered  a  bed  for  myself.  The 
stranger  left  the  room,  we  finished  the  punch, 
•conversing  freely.  Its  fire  quickened  me  and 
glowed  through  my  veins.  The  Scarlet  Coat 
hurried  to  his  carriage,  and  as  he  went  he  said  : 
"We  shall  see  each  other  again,"  and  the  car- 
riage rolled  away. 

As  I  came  back  into  the  room,  a  young  lady 
was  there  who  had  come  to  take  her  shawl,  her 
gloves,  and  her  hat,  and  turned  towards  me.  I 
lost  my  presence  of  mind.  It  was  Julie,  my  first 
love.  As  I  afterwards  learned,  she  was  journey- 
ing with  her  husband  towards  Italy.  She  was 
as  much  shocked  as  was  I. 

"In  God's  name  !  Is  it  your  ghost,  Robert  ? " 

"Julie  !  "  I  stammered. 

All  the  charm  of  the  first  love  woke  again  in 
me  with   this  surprise,   and  my   gaze.      I  ap- 


252  ^scbofcfce's  {Tales 

proached  her  in  a  respectful  manner.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  her  arms  were  open,  I  lay 
weeping  on  her  bosom.  As  soon  as  we  recov- 
ered ourselves  she  remarked  that  she  was  partly 
undressed. 

"  This  is  not  my  room,"  she  said,  and  threw 
a  shawl  around  her.  "  Come,  Robert,  we  have 
much  to  say  to  one  another." 

She  turned  to  go,  I  followed  her  into  her 
room.  "Here  we  can  talk  freely,"  she  said. 
We  placed  ourselves  on  the  sofa.  Then  we  told 
each  other  every  thing.  Once  more  I  loved  in 
the  fever-heat  of  the  old  love  which  I  had  be- 
lieved extinguished.  Julie,  unhappy  with  her 
husband  Starostin,  hung  upon  me  with  the  old- 
time  pleasure.  She  was  more  beautiful,  more 
blooming  than  ever.  She  found  me  better- 
looking,  she  said. 

"  May  my  Fanny  forgive  me,"  thought  I. 
"It  is  perhaps  now  the  only  and  last  moment 
in  life."  It  is  indeed  the  dream  of  a  few  hours. 
The  flame  of  our  passion  swept  from  soul  to 
soul  in  kisses.  A  charm  that  I  cannot  possibly 
describe  was  in  Julie's  words  and  being. 

Every  thing  from  the  beginning  became  clear 
in  memory.  Our  first  acquaintance  at  the  ball 
at  the  wedding  of  her  sister,  the  impression  we 
then  made  upon  each  other.  The  meeting  in 
the  Duke's  garden,  the  jaunt  on  the  river  with 


Malpurgis  IRigbt  253 

our  parents,  and  how  at  Worlitz  we  were  in 
the  elysinm  of  love,  and  had  sworn  our  lives  to 
each  other.  We  gave  ourselves  over  to  the  past 
and  had  no  thought  of  the  future,  we  forgot  that 
we  did  not  belong  to  each  other. 

vSuddenly  the  door  opened.  That  tall,  grim 
man  entered  with  the  inquiry  :  "Who  is  with 
you,  Julie?  " 

In  fright  we  stood  up.  For  a  moment  vStar- 
ostin  stood  without  speech,  pale  as  a  ghost,  then 
in  three  steps  he  strode  to  Julie,  wound  her 
long  chestnut-locks  round  his  hand,  dashed  her 
groaning  to  earth,  dragged  her  about  the  floor 
whilst  he  shouted  :  "Traitress!  traitress!" 

I  tried  to  help  her.  He  threw  me  back  with 
great  strength  so  that  I  tumbled  to  the  ground. 
As  I  pressed  upon  him  again  he  left  the  un- 
happy one  and  cried  to  me  :  "  I  will  strangle 
you." 

In  my  desperation  I  snatched  a  knife  from 
the  table,  and  threatened  to  strike  him  in  the 
side  unless  he  kept  still,  but  in  his  rage  he 
threw  himself  upon  me,  clutched  my  neck  be- 
tween his  hands  and  choked  me.  I  lost  my 
breath.  I  struck  out  blindly  with  the  knife  on 
all  sides  about  me  ;  I  struck  him.  Suddenly  the 
miserable  man  fell  back.  The  knife  was  in  his 
heart.  Julie  lay  moaning  upon  the  floor  near 
her  murdered  husband.     I  stood  like  a  pillar. 


254  £scbokke's  Gales 

"Oh!"  I  thought  to  myself!  "if  this  were 
only  a  dream,  and  if  I  were  only  lying  awake  on 
the  sofa  of  my  garden-house.  Cursed  be  the 
Red  Coat,  cursed  be  my  pocket-book  !  Oh  !  my 
poor  children  !  Oh  !  my  beloved,  unhappy, 
good  Fanny  !  On  the  threshold  of  my  home- 
paradise  I  am  thrust  back  to  a  hell  which  I 
never  knew.  I  am  a  murderer.  The  noises  in 
the  room  had  aroused  the  people  of  the  house. 
I  heard  inquiries,  calls,  going  to  and  fro. 
Nothing  was  left  for  me  but  flight,  before  I 
should  be  discovered.  I  seized  the  light  in  order 
to  see  my  way  out  of  the  house. 

HORROR    PERFECTED. 

As  I  passed  down  the  stairs,  I  thought  to  hur- 
ry to  my  home  to  wake  up  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren, to  press  them  once  more  to  my  heart,  and 
then  like  Cain  to  flee  into  the  world,  so  as  not 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  justice.  On  the  stairs  I 
saw  that  my  clothes  were  spotted  with  the  blood 
of  Starostin.  I  dreaded  to  be  seen.  The  house- 
door  towards  the  street  was  fastened.  As  I  hur- 
ried past  to  go  out  through  the  court-yard,  I 
heard  men  hurrying  from  the  stairs  crying  and 
calling  after  me.  I  ran  over  the  court-yard  to 
the  barn,  knowing  that  from  there  I  could  come 
into  the  gardens  and  fields  on  the  outside  of  the 


TKHatpurate  IRigbt  255 

village.  Those  who  were  nearest  behind  me 
hurried  on,  and  at  the  barn  one  of  them  seized 
me  by  the  coat.  With  devilish  fear  I  tore  my- 
self loose,  and  threw  the  burning  candle  into  a 
heap  of  straw  that  was  at  my  side.  Flames 
rose  at  once.  Thus  I  hoped  to  save  myself.  I 
succeeded.  They  let  me  loose  in  order  to  care 
for  the  fire.  So  I  came  into  the  open  air  and 
plunged  blindly  forth  over  the  hedges  and  the 
ditches.  I  could  no  longer  think  of  seeing  my 
Fanny,  my  August,  my  Leopold.  The  instinct 
of  self-preservation  crowded  out  all  other  feel- 
ings of  my  heart  and  my  nature. 

As  I  thought  upon  my  yesterday  home  jour- 
ney, and  on  my  expectation  of  this  morning,  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  believe  that  which  had 
already  passed.  But  my  bloody,  clotted  cloth- 
ing, the  cold  morning  air  which  pierced  through 
me,  told  me  only  too  well  the  contrary.  I  ran 
on  almost  without  breath,  until  I  could  run  no 
longer.  Had  I  had  any  deadly  weapon  with  me, 
or,  had  I  come  to  any  stream,  I  should  have  put 
an  end  to  my  life.  Dripping  with  sweat,  without 
breath,  exhausted,  with  trembling  knees,  I  con- 
tinued my  journey  with  faltering  steps.  I  was 
compelled  to  stop  now  and  then,  and  several 
times  I  almost  sank  to  the  ground  fainting.  In 
this  way  I  reached  the  nearest  village,  and 
while  considering  whether  I  should  go  around 


256  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

or  boldly  pass  through  (for  the  moonlight  was 
still  bright,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet  come  up), 
the  village  bells  began  to  ring  the  alarm.  Soon 
the  noise  spread  to  other  more  distant  villages. 
It  was  the  fire-bell.  Every  stroke  tortured  me. 
I  gazed  upon  myself ;  great  God !  behind  me 
was  this  bright,  dark-red  flame,  a  horrid  pillar 
of  fire,  which  now  stretched  up  to  the  clouds, 
and  swept  over  my  home.  The  whole  village 
was  in  flames,  and  I — I  was  the  incendiary. 

"Oh!  my  Fanny  !  Oh  !  my  children  !  What 
a  terrible  awakening  has  your  father  prepared 
for  you  !  " 

I  clutched  my  hair,  tore  myself  away,  and 
the  soles  of  my  feet  were  like  feathers.  I  ran  in 
great  leaps  around  the  village  into  the  woods. 
The  flames  of  my  home  were  light  as  the  day, 
and  the  clanging  of  the  alarm-bells  pierced  with 
lacerating  tones  through  my  shattered  frame. 
When  I  came  to  the  darkness  of  the  woods  and 
entered  where  I  could  no  longer  see  the  red 
light  of  the  fire,  which  up  to  this  time  had 
shadowed  me,  I  could  go  no  farther.  I  sank  to 
the  earth  and  wept  over  my  affliction.  I  struck 
my  forehead  against  the  ground,  snatched  at 
the  grass  and  the  roots  ;  and  wished  for  death, 
but  did  not  know  how  to  bring  it  to  pass. 
False  !  a  murderer  !  an  incendiary  ! — all  at  once. 

Oh !    the    Scarlet   Coat  was    right   enough ! 


Walpurcjte  IRicjbt  257 

There  is  no  one  holy  except  those  to  whom 
there  has  been  no  opportunity  to  sin.  Offer  the 
Devil  one  hair — he  will  have  your  whole  head. 
What  unlucky  chance  brought  Satan  into  the 
garden-house  to  me.  If  I  had  taken  no  punch 
I  might  have  seen  Julie  without  forgetting  my 
Fanny,  and  Starostin  would  not  have  been  mur- 
dered. I  would  not  have  been  lying  here,  a 
horror  to  myself,  and  a  curse  to  humanity. 
Meanwhile,  the  alarm-bells  sounded  without 
ceasing,  and  drove  me  forward  with  fright.  I 
rejoiced  that  it  was  not  yet  day.  I  hoped  still 
to  be  able  to  make  a  long  journey.  But  again 
I  sank  weeping  to  the  earth,  when  I  remem- 
bered that  this  was  the  first  of  May.  It  was  my 
Fanny's  birthday.  How  had  we  happy  ones 
been  accustomed  to  celebrate  this  day  in  the 
circle  of  our  friends !  To-day  what  a  day !  What 
a  night !  One  fearful  thought  came  over  me. 
This  is  Walpurgis  Night.  Wonder  !  Of  old, 
superstition  has  made  this  a  night  of  affright  in 
which  evil  spirits  are  accustomed  to  make  their 
festival,  and  the  Devil  gathers  his  witches  upon 
the  summit  of  Blocksburg.  I  was  almost  per- 
suaded to  believe  in  the  truth  of  this  deviltry. 
The  suspected  Scarlet  Coat  came  to  me  more 
and  more  distinctly  in  mind  with  all  his  strange 
phrases.  Now,  why  should  I  deny  it?  I  would 
have  given  my  soul  if  he  were  the  one  he  said 


258  Z^cbofcfce's  {Tales 

he  was  when  jesting  with  me  in  the  garden- 
house,  in  order  to  save  myself,  to  get  rid  of  my 
conscience,  and  to  procure  the  company  of  my 
wife  and  my  children  in  some  corner  of  the 
earth,  where  we  could  live  undiscovered.  The 
alarm-bells  sounded  louder.  I  saw  the  gray  of 
the  morning  light.  I  fled  from  the  place,  and 
continuing  through  the  thicket,  came  to  a  pub- 
lic road. 

CAIN. 

HERE  I  drew  fresh  breath.  All  that  had  passed 
was  so  terrifying.  It  had  been  so  sudden  I  could 
not  believe  it.  I  gazed  about  me.  Through  the 
fir  trees  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  was  still  to  be 
seen.  I  touched  myself,  and  my  finger  was 
soiled  with  the  blood  of  Starostin.  It  would 
betray  me  to  the  first  man  I  should  meet.  I 
tore  the  soiled  clothes  from  my  body,  hid  them 
in  the  bushes,  and  washed  my  hands  clean  with 
the  dew  on  the  grass.  Half  clothed,  I  ran  along 
the  highway.  "Who  are  you  now  ?  "  I  said  to 
myself.  "  Whoever  looks  upon  you  will  pursue 
you.  Only  mad  men  or  murderers  course 
through  the  woods  in  such  guise.  I  must  ac- 
count for  myself  that  I  have  been  robbed. 
If  I  meet  a  peasant  whom  I  can  overcome, 
I  must  get  hold  of  his  blouse.  In  this  way  I 
shall  be  hidden  for  the   first  while.      During 


H&alpurgis  IRtgbt  259 

the  day  I  can  hide  in  the  shade  of  the  woods. 
At  night  I  can  continue  my  flight.  But 
where  shall  I  get  money?"  Then  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  I  had  left  my  pocket-book  in 
the  coat  I  had  thrown  away,  and  that  I  had 
robbed  myself  of  all  ready  money.  I  stood  still, 
undecided  for  an  instant.  I  thought  I  would 
return  and  seek  my  pocket-book, — but  that 
blood  of  Starostin  !  Oh  !  I  could  not  look  upon 
it  again, — not  if  there  was  a  million  to  be  ob- 
tained, and  to  go  back,  to  have  the  incendiary 
flames  again  before  my  eyes.  No  ;  I  had  rather 
meet  the  fire  of  open  hell.  I  wTandered  on.  I 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  thought  per- 
haps it  was  a  fire  engine,  hurrying  to  the  aid  of 
the  peasants.  I  plunged  into  the  bush  whence 
I  could  look  upon  the  landscape,  trembling  like 
an  aspen  leaf.  Approaching  slowly,  drawn  by 
two  horses,  was  a  tasteful  open  wagon  with 
baggage.  A  man  sat  in  it,  driving  more  and 
more  slowly,  and  finally  stopped  close  by  me. 
He  got  out,  went  around  the  carriage,  looked 
about  on  all  sides,  and  then  leaving  the  carriage, 
went  backwards  into  the  bush.  The  thought 
came  to  me  :  "  It  would  help  you  very  much  if 
you  were  in  the  wagon.  Your  limbs  are  almost 
broken,  they  will  not  carry  you  much  farther. 
You  could  be  saved  by  money,  clothes,  and 
swift  flight.      All   may  be  possible.      Heaven 


260  #6cbokfee's  tlales 


takes  care  of  you  ;  use  this  hint !  The  car- 
riage is  empty  ;  spring  into  it."  It  was  done  as 
soon  as  thought,  for  there  was  no  time  for 
hesitation.  Every  man  is  his  own  neighbor, 
and  helps  himself  if  he  can.  Despair  and 
necessity  have  no  law. 

With  one  spring  I  was  out  of  the  bush  on  the 
road,  and  with  another  from  the  road  into  the 
wagon.  I  seized  the  reins  and  turned  the  horses 
and  carriage  away  from  my  burning  home. 
The  owner  rushed  out  of  the  wood.  At  the  in- 
stant I  struck  the  horses  with  the  whip,  he  en- 
deavored to  seize  them  by  the  bridle.  He  stood 
before  them.  I  struck  them  a  heavy  blow,  for  I 
must  dare  every  thing.  The  horses  leaped  for- 
ward, the  owner  fell  under  their  feet.  I  rode 
over  him.  He  cried  for  help.  His  voice 
pierced  me  through  ;  it  was  a  voice  I  recog- 
nized, a  voice  I  loved.  I  did  not  trust  my  ears. 
I  stopped  and  leaned  out  of  the  wagon  in  order 
to  see  the  unhappy  man.  I  saw  him — I  shud- 
der as  I  say  it — I  saw  my  brother,  who  unex- 
pectedly must  have  finished  his  business  in 
Prague,  or  had  other  reasons  for  his  homeward 
journey.  I  saw  him  there,  as  though  struck  by 
lightning,  wounded  and  in  a  stupor.  The  earth 
trembled  under  my  feet.  This  I  had  not  wished 
or  thought  of.  Slowly  I  got  out ;  I  sank 
down  by  my  beloved  brother.    The  heavy  wheel 


Malpurgis  IRigbt  261 

had  passed  over  his  breast.  I  called  upon  his 
name  with  trembling  voice.  He  heard  me  no 
longer ;  he  could  not  recognize  me  ;  he  was 
dead.  I  was  the  one  who  had  robbed  him  of 
the  life  which  was  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own. 
Horror  !  Two  murders  in  one  nigh,t.  Both,  in- 
deed, involuntary ;  both,  indeed,  in  my  de- 
spair ;  but  still  they  had  occurred  as  the  result 
of  my  first  crime,  which  I  should  have  avoided. 
My  eyes  were  wet,  but  it  was  not  with  tears  of 
lament  over  the  beloved,  but  with  tears  of 
raging  fury  against  my  fate — against  Heaven. 
Never  before  had  I  soiled  myself  with  violent 
crime.  I  had  been  sensitive  to  all  that  was 
beautiful,  to  all  that  was  great,  good,  and  true. 
I  had  known  no  greater  pleasure  than  to  make 
others  happy,  and  now  an  accursed  trivial  of- 
fence, an  unhappy  moment  of  self-forgetful- 
ness,  and  that  criminal  sport  of  Fate  or  of  Ne- 
cessity had  made  me  the  most  pitiable  and 
most  ruined  person  under  the  face  of  heaven. 
Oh !  let  no  one  boast  of  his  virtue,  of  his 
strength,  or  of  his  self-control.  Only  one 
moment  is  necessary  when  a  man  steps  aside 
a  little  from  his  good  principles.  Only  one  in- 
stant, and  the  angel-pure  man  is  capable  of  all 
crimes.  Well  may  it  be  for  him  if  his  surround- 
ings do  better  for  him  than  mine  have  for  me, 
and  have  not  laid  his  brother  in  the  road  for  him 


262  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

to  drive  over.  However,  there  was  no  time  for 
moralizing.  If  one  is  not  himself  moral,  he 
cannot  find  morality.  I  hasten  to  the  end  of 
my  unhappy  history,  such  as  no  poet  has  ever 
pictured  more  terrifying. 

REMORSE. 

I  kissed  the  pale  forehead  of  my  brother. 
Then  I  heard  voices  in  the  wood.  Should  I 
permit  myself  to  be  taken  at  the  body  of  my 
loved  one,  whom  I  had  first  tried  to  rob  and 
then  had  slain  ?  Without  thought,  I  plunged 
into  the  thick  bush  and  left  the  corpse  with  the 
horses  and  the  carriage  to  their  fate.  Only  the 
fearful  desire  for  life  waked  in  me  :  every  thing 
else  was  dead.  I  walked  in  bewilderment 
through  the  thorns  ;  where  the  foliage  was  the 
thickest,  and  where  the  branches  were  most  in- 
terlaced, there  I  hurried  on.  "  Whoever  finds 
you,"  I  cried  to  myself,  "he  will  kill  you, 
Cain,  fratricide  !  "  Worn  out,  I  sat  down  upon  a 
rock  in  the  deepest  woods.  The  sun  had  risen 
without  my  observing  it.  New  life  breathed 
through  nature.  Walpurgis  Night,  full  of  hor- 
rors, lay  behind  me  with  my  crimes,  but  their 
progeny  tortured  me  upon  my  way  like  devils. 
I  saw  the  family  of  my  brother  without  any  sup- 
port.     I  saw  the  court  of  justice.      I  saw  the 


Malpurgis  IRigbt  263 

executioner's  procession.  I  saw  the  execution 
block  ;  then  suddenly  my  life  was  a  burden  to 
me.  "Why  did  I  not  allow  myself  to  be  over- 
powered by  Starostin?"  I  said.  "I  had  well 
deserved  it.  I  was  unfaithful  to  my  Fanny,  and 
to  the  trust  which  I  had  sworn  to  her  a  thou- 
sand times.  Oh  !  if  I  had  only  turned  back 
whilst  the  village  was  in  flames  behind  me. 
Then  I  could  have  kissed  my  wife  and  children 
farewell,  and  afterwards  thrown  myself  into  the 
flames.  Then  I  would  have  been  spared  the 
murder  of  my  brother. ' '  I  dreaded  to  live,  for 
I  was  afraid  of  committing  new  crimes.  They 
seemed  to  be  so  unavoidable  to  me  at  every 
step.  So  greatly  had  the  occurrences  up  to  this 
time  shattered  me,  that  I  believed  every  breath 
brought  a  new  fault  to  him  who  had  sinned.  I 
contemplated  suicide ;  but  for  this  I  was  too 
weak.  I  determined  to  deliver  myself  up  to 
justice  ;  to  confess  my  faults,  and  then,  al- 
though under  mournful  circumstances,  I  could 
indulge  the  hope  once  more  in  life  to  press  to 
my  breast  my  Fanny,  my  Leopold,  and  August, 
to  beg  from  them  forgiveness,  and,  accom- 
panied by  their  tears,  at  last  to  wander  away 
into  eternity.  In  this  way  I  could  have  the 
opportunity  to  regulate  my  affairs,  and  give  to 
my  Fanny  useful  advice  and  suggestions  con- 
cerning various  matters.      This  thought  gave 


264  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

me  a  certain  satisfaction.  I  became  more  quiet. 
I  had  given  up  life,  and  now  the  furies  of  my 
conscience  ceased  to  rage.  They  had  obtained 
what  they  wanted.  I  arose  ;  went  forward,  al- 
though I  did  not  know  where.  In  my  confusion 
and  terrible  anxiety,  I  had  forgotten  the  coun- 
try out  of  which  I  had  come.  The  wood  lay 
dark  and  thick  about  me.  I  strove  for  a  glim- 
mer of  the  fire  which  should  direct  me  to  my 
judges.  It  was  all  the  same,  for  every  step  and 
every  road  must  finally  bring  me  to  them.  After 
awhile  the  forest  grew  clearer.  I  came  upon  a 
rough  road  and  entered  it,  careless -whither  it 
led. 

THE  TEMPTER. 

Near  me  I  heard  the  neighing  of  horses,  and, 
shrinking  back,  the  love  of  life  was  awakened 
anew.  I  wished  to  flee  back  again  into  the 
wilderness.  I  reasoned  with  myself:  "Thou 
hast  indeed  sinned.  In  truth,  thou  art  terribly 
criminal,  but  still  could  be  happy  if  saved  at 
this  time.  Never  was  there  a  completer  scoun- 
drel, although  inconsiderate."  So,  forgetting 
all  that  had  passed,  I  thought  of  where  un- 
known, under  an  assumed  name,  I  might  live 
with  my  wife  and  children.  Notwithstanding 
all  this  reflection,  I  steadily  pursued  my  way. 

At  a  turning  of  the  road  right  before  me  I 


Walpurgis  IRigbt  265 

saw  horses  and  a  carriage  overturned  with  a 
broken  wheel,  and,  to  my  satisfaction,  there, 
standing  near  to  it,  was  the  familiar  Scarlet 
Coat. 

When  he  saw  me  he  grinned,  according  to 
his  custom,  and  said  :  "  Welcome  here ;  did  I 
not  say  that  we  should  see  each  other  again  ? 
I  have  been  waiting  almost  all  the  night.  My 
postilion  has  gone  back  to  the  town  to  obtain 
help,  and  he  does  not  return." 

I  replied :  "  He  has  more  help  to  give  there 
than  here,  for  the  whole  town  is  afire." 

"  So  !  "  he  answered  ;  "I  saw  the  red  in  the 
sky.  But  what  are  you  doing  in  the  wood  ? 
What  are  you  looking  for  ?  Why  don't  you 
help  extinguish  the  fire  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  have  other  things  to  extinguish  be- 
sides fire." 

"  I  thought  so.     I  told  you  so  before." 

"  Save  me  !  I  have  become  a  helpless  crimi- 
nal. I  was  a  thoughtless  husband,  murderer, 
incendiary,  highway  robber,  fratricide,  all  from 
the  moment  you  left  me,  all  in  three  hours' 
time,  and  yet  I  swear  to  you  that  I  am  not  a  bad 
man." 

Scarlet  Coat  stamped  with  his  club-foot  on  the 
ground  whilst  I  spoke  these  words,  as  though 
impatient,  but  his  expression  remained  hard 
and  iron-like. 


266  ^scbofcfce's  Gales 

He  did  not  answer.  Then  I  related  to  him 
the  misfortunes  of  this  unexampled  night. 

He  said,  impassively :  "  Do  you  now  know  me 
and  what  I  wish  from  you?  " 

"My  soul !  my  soul !"  1  cried.  "  I  begin  now 
in  truth  to  believe  that  you  are  really  that  one, 
for  whom,  in  jest,  I  held  you  when  in  Prague." 

"Who  is  that  one?" 

"  Satan." 

"Then  fall  down  before  me  and  make  your 
petition,"  he  hissed  out,  with  hateful  voice. 

I  fell  upon  my  knees  before  him  as  one  bereft 
of  senses.  I  raised  my  fallen  hands,  and  cried : 
"Save  me!  save  my  wife!  save  my  children 
from  destruction  !  They  are  innocent.  Bring 
us  to  some  wilderness  where  we  may  have 
bread,  water,  and  a  cave  to  dwell  in.  We  will 
be  happy  there  as  though  we  were  in  Paradise, 
but  wash  out  the  recollection  of  this  Walpurgis 
Night  from  my  memory,  or  even  in  Paradise 
there  would  be  hell.  If  you  cannot  do  that,  it 
were  better  that  I  should  die  in  penitence  in  the 
court  of  justice." 

Whilst  I  said  this,  he  lifted  his  club-foot  and 
struck  me  with  it  so  that  I  fell  backwards  upon 
the  ground.  I  raised  myself  up.  I  wished  to 
repeat  my  petition,  but  he  interrupted  me  and 
said:  "Here  we  see  the  pious  and  sensitive 
man  !    Here  we  see  the  proud  mortal  in  the 


XRflalpuraig  IRigbt  267 

glory  of  bis  reason  !  Here  we  see  the  philoso- 
pher, who  denies  existence  to  the  Devil,  and 
learnedly  doubts  eternity.  He  crowns  his 
shameful  deeds  with  petitions  to  Satan." 

"  Satan  !  I  recognize  you  in  this,"  I  cried,  in 
rage.  "Soft  pity  which  dwells  in  the  warm 
heart  of  man,  fails  in  your  iron  breast.  From 
you  who  know  only  evil  delight,  I  ask  no  pit)7. 
I  will  buy  a  favor,  buy  it  with  my  soul.  It 
might  still  gain  something.  It  might  find  the 
way  to  revenge  and  to  mercy." 

' '  It  could  escape  you  still,  although  you  think 
you  surely  have  it  now,"  gloomily  he  responded. 
No  !  my  dear  sir,  I  am  a  man  like  you. 
You  were  an  offender,  now  you  have  lost  your 
senses.  One  who  has  given  up  his  faith  soon 
loses  his  reason.  I  despise  you,  and  if  I  had 
the  power  to  help  you  I  would  not.  I  do  not 
want  your  soul.  Your  soul  is  ready  for  hell 
without  the  slightest  offer  on  the  part  of 
Satan." 

HOPE. 

I  STOOD  in  doubt  and  despair  before  him. 
Shame,  rage,  revenge,  inclination  to  every 
crime  which  could  for  an  instant  help  me  ;  all 
these  impulses  struggled  in  my  breast.  I  can- 
not describe  what  was  passing  within  me.  The 
history  of  these  fleeting  moments  would  if  writ- 


268  ^scbofcfce's  £ales 

ten  out  expand  into  volumes  ;  and  after  all  I 
could  not  portray  them  clearly. 

At  last  I  said  :  ' '  Although  you  are  not  the 
person  for  whom  I  took  you,  I  wish  you  were. 
Save  me  !  otherwise  I  am  lost.  Save  me  !  You 
alone  are  at  fault  in  my  terrible  misfortunes." 

"So  it  is  with  a  man,''  he  said,  with  a  gri- 
mace. ' '  He  will  al ways  clear  his  own  skirts, 
even  though  he  has  bathed  in  a  brother's 
blood." 

"Yes  !  you,  sir,  were  the  first  occasion  of  all 
the  horrors  of  this  night.  Why  did  you  come 
to  my  garden-house,  where  I  was  sleeping 
quietly  without  harm,  awaiting  daybreak.  If 
you  had  not  aroused  me,  all  that  has  passed 
would  never  have  happened." 

"Did  I  wake  you  up  to  unfaithfulness  and 
incendiarism  ?  Thus  man  represents  it.  When 
he  has  slaughtered  thousands,  he  lays  the 
blame  upon  the  miner,  who  has  dug  out  the 
iron  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth.  Why, 
my  dear  sir,  your  very  breath  is  a  cause  of 
crime.  Without  breath  you  could  not  commit 
a  crime,  but  without  breath  you  would  have 
had  no  life." 

"  Why  did  you  play  this  role  of  the  Devil,  in 
the  garden,  and  say  to  me  with  such  emphasis, 
1  Whoever  offers  a  hair  of  his  head  to  the  Devil, 
Satan  draws  in  his  whole  head  as  upon  a  line.'  " 


tAHalpurgts  IKUgbt  269 

"Well,  what  of  that?  Did  I  tell  you  a  lie? 
Who  knows  the  truth  of  this  saying  more  fear- 
fully than  you  yourself  ?  Did  I  ask  you  for  a 
hair,  or  did  you  offer  it  to  me  ?  When  you  saw 
Julie,  3-our  first  love,  then  you  should  have 
thought  of  your  Fanny.  You  trusted  your  vir- 
tue too  much,  or  rather,  you  did  not  think 
about  virtue.  Religion  and  virtue  would  have 
said  to  you,  '  Run  away  to  your  garden-house  !  ' 
One  must  never  trust  his  heart  in  the  way  of 
temptation.  The  first  light  thought  which  he 
allows  to  slip  through,  is  the  hair  in  the  Devil's 
claws." 

1 '  You  are  right,  but  could  I  have  foreseen  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"It  was  impossible.  Consider  the  horrible 
conjunction  of  circumstances." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that.  Could 
you  not  have  thought  of  the  coming  of  Staros- 
tin,  when  you  held  his  wife  in  your  arms? 
Could  you  not  have  thought  of  burning  the 
village  when  you  threw  your  lamp  into  the 
straw  ?  Could  you  not  have  thought  of  fratricide 
when  you  drove  the  horses  over  the  breast  of 
their  owner  ?  Every  man,  even  a  stranger, 
every  one,  is  your  brother." 

"It  may  be  so,  but  do  not  lead  me  to  still 
greater  desperation."  "You  must  at  least  con- 
fess that  the  first  offense   might  have  passed 


270  ^scbokke'B  Gales 

without  all  the  other  terrible  occurrences,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  most  horrible  conjunction 
of  circumstances  which  ever  happened." 

"Who  will  grant  to  you  that?  What  was 
there  terrible  in  this  that  Starostin  came  to  look 
for  his  wife?  Was  it  strange  that  there  was 
straw  in  the  barn,  as  it  is  in  every  barn  ?  Was 
it  terrible  that  your  unhappy  brother  met  you 
upon  his  return  ?  No  my  dear  sir,  that  which 
you  call  the  terrible  conjunction  of  circum- 
stances might  have  been  helpful  if  you  had  re- 
mained upon  the  right  road.  The  world  is  good. 
Man's  disposition  makes  it  a  hell.  It  is  man 
who  first  fashions  the  dagger  and  prepares  poi- 
son. Without  these  things  circumstances  would 
be  like  friendly  ploughshares  or  healing  medi- 
cine.    Do  not  think  of  any  justification." 

Then  I  cried  out  in  despair,  for  I  saw  all  my 
baseness.  ' '  Oh  !  "  I  exclaimed,  ' '  until  this  night 
I  have  been  blameless.  A  good  father,  a  true 
husband  without  reproach,  now  I  am  without 
any  rest,  without  honor,  without  trust." 

"No  !  I  must  contradict  you  also  in  this.  Not 
to-night  for  the  first  time  have  you  become  the 
person  you  now  are  ;  such  you  have  been  for  a 
long  time.  Not  in  an  hour  does  a  man  change 
from  angel  to  devil,  unless  he  has  an  aptitude  to 
a  devil's  life.  Opportunity  only  was  wanting  to 
develop  you  ;  being  alone  with  Julie  was  only 


THaalpurgis  IRigbt  271 

wanting.  In  steel  and  stone  sleeps  the  fire. 
One  may  not  immediately  see  it,  but  bring  them 
together  and  immediately  the  spark  appears.  A 
spark  is  blown  into  the  powder  cask,  and  half  a 
town  with  its  happiness  is  hurled  in  destruction 
and  ruin  to  the  sky.  Let  no  one  praise  to  me 
the  pious  people  who  with  self-satisfaction  fol- 
low poor  sinners  to  the  gallows.  You  do  not 
have  more  to  hang  sitnply  because  of  the  lack 
of  opportunity  to  sin." 

"In  this  way  I  may  console  myself.  The 
whole  world  is  no  better, — you  and  I  in  the 
bargain." 

"  No,  you  are  in  fault.  I  might  yield  half  the 
world  to  you,  but  not  the  whole.  I  still  believe 
in  virtue  and  greatness  of  soul,  but  you  with 
your  intended  greatness  of  mind  never  did  fully 
believe  in  it.  Half  the  world !  yes,  especially 
in  these  days  when  the  current  of  feeling  is 
towards  indolence,  selfishness,  and  idle  am- 
bition. This  is  your  world.  For  this  reason 
you  stand  here  as  one  condemned." 

"You  may  be  right,  but  I  am  no  better  or 
worse  than  all  the  other  people  of  the  time." 

"  What  you  are,  that  appears  to  you  to  be  the 
world  ;  we  neverseethe  outside  in  ourselves,  but 
we  see  ourselves  in  that  which  is  outside 
as  though  in  a  looking-glass." 

"In  God's  name,  Master!"  I  cried,  beside 


272  ^scbofcfce's  ftales 

myself,  "  save  me,  for  time  flies.     If  I  was  bad, 
cannot  I  be  better?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  ;  necessity  brings  strength." 
' '  Save  me  !    My  wife  and  children  !    I  can  be 
better  ;  I  will  be  better  !     I  now  see  with  shud- 
dering all  the  crimes  I  was  capable  of,  which  I 
never  thought  were  possible  to  me." 

"It  may  happen,  but  you  are  of  a  weak  dis- 
position ;  weakness  is  the  seed  of  destruction 
I  will  save  you  if  you  will  save  yourself.  Do 
you  now  recognize  me  and  what  I  want  of 
you? 

"  You  are  an  angel,  my  protector." 
"It  was  not  in  vain  that  I  appeared  to  you  in 
the  garden-house  before  your  trial  of  horrors.    I 
gave  you  a  warning.     But  courage  !     He  who 
has  faith,  has  every  thing." 

RESCUE. 

WhiesT  the  Scarlet  Coat  spoke  these  words, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  though  his  red  garments  in 
reality  burned  like  flames,  and  as  though  a 
green  fire  shot  up  from  the  earth  around  him. 
It  was  only  the  trees.  The  colors  danced  before 
my  eyes  in  wonderful  fashion.  Every  thing  was 
clearing  up.  I  lay  in  a  faint.  I  lost  conscious- 
ness. I  knew  no  more.  Something  happened. 
Then  I  felt  a  dull  return  of  sensation.      In  my 


Uflalpuvtiis  1Ki0bt  273 

hearing  there  was  a  voice.  Before  my  eyes  there 
was  a  glimmering  of  rays  of  light  as  thought, 
sound,  and  the  light  became  clearer.  I  tried  to 
reason,  but  I  could  not  understand  what  had 
happened  to  me.  "  Either  it  is  a  faint,  or  it  is 
death,"  I  thought.  Does  the  soul  ever  tear 
itself  away  from  its  nerves?  Does  the  spirit 
ever  lose  itself  from  the  body  ?  What  remains  ? 
With  the  failure  of  the  senses  the  world  fails, 
and  the  spirit  without  independent  strength 
fades  away  into  space.  Man  is  like  a  bubble, 
tossed  upon  the  moving,  ever-changing  surface 
of  the  ocean,  reflecting  upon  its  surface  the 
green  islands  and  the  infinity  of  heaven.  When 
the  bubble  ends  all  is  gone. 

"  No  !  no!"  cried  I,  within  myself. 

"You  were  a  criminal  because  you  lost  faith 
in  God,  and  gave  yourself  over  to  the  sport  of 
fancies  of  the  brain.  The  spiritual  world  is  not 
the  ocean.  Man's  spirit  is  not  mere  foam. 
Hold  fast  to  faith  !  It  comes  from  God,  for 
God.  Reason  comes  from  God  for  the  good 
of  mortals."  Such  was  my  reflection,  and  I 
opened  my  eyes. 

Above  me  appeared  the  old  man  in  friendly 
guise,  but  as  though  surrounded  with  clouds.  I 
saw  no  longer  his  iron  features,  but  a  mild  being 
with  changed  appearance.  The  splendor  blinded 
me,  and  I  closed  my  eyes  again,  and  dreamed  on. 


274  %scbokkef&  ftalea 

I  could  not  move  a  limb.  "What  has  come 
of  me?"  I  thought;  "for  I  seem  to  hear  the 
sound  of  passers-by  in  town  or  in  village,  and 
the  sighing  of  moving  trees,  and  the  murmur  of 
streams,  and  the  sound  of  breakers  on  the  rocks, 
and  now  the  bells  of  flocks  in  the  distance,  and 
the  song  of  the  shepherds.  What  has  hap- 
ened?  where  am  I?"  I  sighed  gently  but  ex- 
citedly. Over  me  hung  the  form  of  the  old 
man,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  care.  "  I  wirl 
save  you,"  he  said  at  last,  softly.  "  Fear 
no  more.  You  have  seen  your  life,  and  you 
have  seen  your  death.  Weakling,  be  now  a 
man.    A  second  time  I  will  not  save  you." 

Again  twilight  was  before  my  eyes,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  lay  in  a  cave  in  the  cliffs, 
into  which  the  light  broke  through  a  narrow 
crevice.     The  old  man  still  hung  over  me. 

He  said  :  ' '  Now  you  are  saved,  and  I  will 
leave  you  ;  I  have  fulfilled  your  wishes." 

But  I  sighed  :  "My  Fanny!  my  children! 
Give  them  to  me  in  this  wilderness." 

The  old  man  said  :  "  They  already  be  yours." 

"Wipe  out  the  recollection  of  my  horror! 
Destroy  it  for  all  eternity,  if  you  can  !  " 

The  old  man  spoke  :  "  I  will  wash  it  out;  it 
shall  not  trouble  you  more." 

Whilst  he  said  this  he  spread  himself  over 
me  like  a  vapor.     Then  I  saw  only  great  rocks 


TUflatpurgis  1Wabt  275 

above  me,  and  understood  no  more,  but  I  was 
unspeakably  happy,  and  yet  it  seemed  like  a 
fairy  tale. 

As  I  still  gazed  upon  the  rocks  above,  an  un- 
seen being  pressed  its  lips  upon  mine.  I  felt  a 
warm,  sweet  kiss. 

THE    NEW  WORED. 

This  kiss  was  of  earth.  I  thought  my  eyes 
were  open,  and  yet  I  remarked  that  they  were 
closed.  Then  I  heard  light  steps  about  me,  but 
in  the  cave  I  saw  nobody.  Upon  me  came  a 
sweet  breath,  and  two  tender  lips  touched  mine. 
The  feeling  of  life  returned  to  my  outer  senses. 
I  heard  the  whisper  of  children.  Dream  and 
reality  mingled  in  confusion,  but  becoming 
clearer,  until  I  returned  to  consciousness,  and  a 
different  feeling.  I  felt  that  I  lay  in  a  hard  and 
uncomfortable  place,  it  seemed  to  me  upon  a 
sofa,  in  a  garden-house.  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
my  Fanny  hung  over  me.  By  her  kisses  had  I 
been  awakened.  Our  children  clapped  their 
hands  with  pleasure,  as  they  saw  me  awake, 
and  clambering  upon  the  sofa,  and  over  me, 
cried  one  and  the  other :  "  Papa  !  Good  morning. 
Good  morning,  Papa  !  "  My  wife  lamented 
over  me  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  reproaching 
me,  that  I  had  slept  the  whole  cold  night  in  the 


276  ^scbofcfce'a  tXates 

garden-house ;  and  saying  that  if  Christopher, 
my  servant,  had  not  come  in  from  the  post- 
house  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  and  made  an 
uproar  with  the  maids  in  the  kitchen,  in  this 
way  betraying  my  arrival,  nobody  would  have 
known  any  thing  about  it.  The  heavy  Walpur- 
gis  dream  had  so  undone  me,  that  I  lay  for  a 
long  time  striving  to  trust  my  eyes.  I  looked 
for  the  fantastic  cave  of  the  wilderness,  and  all 
the  while  it  was  the  garden-house.  There  lay 
the  little  trumpets,  the  play-horses,  and  the 
whip  on  the  floor.  On  the  table  sat  Fanny's 
work-basket.  All  was  as  I  had  found  it, 
when  I  chose  my  night  couch  here. 

"And  Christopher  has  just  come  back  from 
the  post-house  ? "  said  I.  "  Did  he  spend  the 
whole  night  there?" 

"Why,  of  course,  wonderful  man!"  said 
Fanny,  and  she  stroked  my  cheek.  "He  said 
you  yourself  ordered  him  to  do  so  ;  but  why 
did  you  pass  the  night  on  this  sofa,  hard  as  a 
stone  ?  Why  did  you  not  wake  us  out  of  our 
beds  ?  How  gladly  would  we  have  made  ready 
your  reception." 

I  shrank  back  with  joy. 

"And  you  slept  through  the  whole  night  in 
peace  and  quiet?" 

"Only  too  much  so,"  said  Fanny.  "  If  I 
could  only  have  suspected  that  you  were  here 


Malpurgis  IRicjbt  277 

in  the  garden-house,  there  would  have  been  no 
more  sleep.  I  would  have  come  to  you  like  a 
ghost.  And  do  you  know  it  was  Walpurgis 
Night  when  witches  and  Kobolds  breathe  out 
their  curses?" 

"  Oh  !  only  too  well,"  said  I,  and  I  rubbed 
my  eyes,  and  laughed  in  joy  that  all  my  crimes 
were  a  dream  ;  that  neither  the  post-house  nor 
the  village  was  burned  ;  that  neither  the  Scar- 
let Coat  from  Prague,  nor  the  long- forgotten 
Julie,  had  visited  me.  I  pressed  my  lovely 
Fanny  to  my  breast,  embraced  my  children,  and 
understood  better  than  ever  before,  the  good 
fortune  of  a  pure  heart  and  a  sound  conscience. 
Around  me  blossomed  a  new  world,  but  more 
than  once  it  was  doubted  by  me  as  a  dream, 
and  I  looked  oft  upon  the  friendly  roofs  of  our 
village,  to  demonstrate  to  myself  that  I  had 
thrown  no  burning  lamp  into  the  straw.  Never 
in  my  life  had  I  dreamed  such  a  connected, 
clear,  and  terrifying  dream.  Only  at  last, 
when  it  mingled  with  my  waking  thoughts,  did 
it  become  more  fantastic.  At  the  same  time, 
my  reasoning  power  seemed  more  active,  as  it 
frequently  is,  shortly  before  awakening  from  a 
morning  dream.  We  went  in  triumph  through 
the  pretty  garden,  into  the  cheerful  house, 
where  all  belonging  to  it  welcomed  me  in  the 
most  friendly  manner.      After  I  had  changed 


278  Zscbofcke's  Gales 

my  dress  I  entered  Fanny's  room  for  breakfast, 
laden  with  all  kinds  of  playthings  for  my  sons. 
There  sat  the  young  mother  by  her  sporting 
children.  Bach  new  glance  of  love  was  a  new 
charm  for  me.  I  fell  in  silence  on  Fanny's 
bosom,  with  tears  of  joy  in  my  eyes.  I  gave 
her  the  presents  purchased  in  Prague,  and  said 
to  her  :  "Fanny  !  This  is  your  birthday." 

"Never,"  she  said,  "have  I  celebrated  it  in  a 
more  delightful  way.  I  have  you  back  again, 
and  will  invite  your  friends,  and  my  compan- 
ions, to  keep  the  day  of  your  return  with  us 
in  joyful  festivity.  That  is,  if  it  is  not  un- 
pleasant to  you.  But  now  sit  down  opposite  to 
us,  and  tell  to  the  least  little  thing  what  has 
passed  with  you." 

The  oppressive  dream  was  still  so  near  me, 
I  thought  I  would  best  get  rid  of  its  burden  if  I 
told  all.  Fanny  heard  me  through  and  was  quite 
disturbed. 

"  Truly,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  at  last  one  may 
believe  in  the  witchery  of  Walpurgis  Night. 
You  have  dreamed  a  good  sermon.  Be  more 
pious,  good  man  !  for  certainly  your  good  angel 
has  spoken  with  you.  Write  your  dream  down. 
vSuch  a  dream  is  more  remarkable  than  many  a 
lifetime.  I  have,  as  you  know,  a  great  regard 
for  dreams.  They  signify  (it  is  true)  nothing 
beforehand  ;  but  still  they  mean  a  great   deal 


TlGlalpurgts  migbt  279 

for  ourselves  sometimes.     They  are  the  clearest 
mirrors  of  our  thoughts." 

THE  TEMPTER  WITH  THE  TEMPTATION. 

A  NOT  very  extraordinary,  and  yet  a  some 
what  remarkable  chance,  happened  on  the  same 
day,  following  my  Walpurgis  Night's  dream.  My 
wife  had  invited  friends  from  the  little  town  to 
a  family  festival.  Because  of  the  beauty  of  the 
mid-day,  we  were  dining  in  the  upper,  and 
roomy,  chamber  of  the  garden-house.  Already 
the  Walpurgis  dream  had  almost  faded  out  of 
my  recollection,  because  of  the  pleasanter  reali- 
ty, when  a  servant  came  in,  to  announce  a 
strange  gentleman,  who  wished  to  speak  with 
me,  "  A  Baron  Mannteuffel  from  Droscow." 

Fanny  saw  that  I  shrank  back.  She  said, 
laughing:  "You  will  not  tremble  before  the 
tempter  when  he  brings  no  temptation,  nor  even 
fear  the  temptation  at  my  side." 

I  went  down,  and  there  upon  the  sofa  where 
I  had  slept,  was  the  Scarlet  Coat  from  Prague, 
in  real  life.  He  arose,  and  greeting  me  like  an 
old  acquaintance,  said  :  "  You  see  that  I  keep  my 
word.  I  must  make  the  acquaintance  of  your 
amiable  Fanny,  whom  I  learned  to  know  acci- 
dentally from  her  letters.  Do  not  be  jealous." 
He  continued  as  he  pointed  towards  the  gate  : 


280  £scbokke's  Gales 

"I  also  bring  with  me  a  pair  of  guests,  my 
brother  and  his  wife.  My  sister-in-law  knows 
you  already.  We  met  unexpectedly  in  Dresden, 
and  now  are  making  our  journey  together." 

I  expressed  my  pleasure,  and  with  this  there 
entered  the  garden  a  thick-set,  strong  man,  and 
with  him  a  lady  in  a  travelling-suit.  Imagine 
my  affright.  It  was  Julie,  the  wife  of  Starostin. 
Julie  was  less  confused  than  I.  although  the 
color  came  to  her  cheek.  After  a  few  polite 
words  I  led  my  guests  into  the  room  and  intro- 
duced them  to  Fanny. 

The  Baron  addressed  her  with  great  polite- 
ness, saying  :  "  I  have  already  paid  suit  to  you 
in  Prague,  when,  without  the  knowledge  of  your 
husband,  I  came  into  all  the  little  secrets  you 
intrusted  to  him." 

"I  know  all,"  said  Fanny.  "With  $1,400 
3'ou  paid  for  the  secrets  ;  but,  notwithstanding, 
you  are  a  bad  man,  for  you  gave  my  husband  a 
most  disturbed  night." 

"  But  this  is  not  the  end  of  it,  Fanny,"  I  said, 
"  you  see  the  good  angel,"  and  I  introduced  to 
her  the  wife  of  Starostin — Julie.  For  an  instant 
Fanny  was  perplexed,  but  women  are  not  long 
confused.  She  embraced  Julie  like  a  sister,  and 
put  the  tempter  on  her  right,  and  the  tempta- 
tion on  her  left,  at  the  table.  "  As  far  as  possible 
away  from  you,"  she  said  to  me  with  a  pleas- 


laaalpurois  IRtgbt  281 

ant  warning.  Fanny  and  Julie,  although  they 
had  never  seen  each  other  before,  were  soon  sis- 
ters in  feeling.  They  had  much  in  common  to 
talk  about,  and  enjoyed  making  me  the  object 
of  their  sport.  For  me,  this  was  a  most  pecul- 
iar festival.  To  see  these  persons  by  one  an- 
other, both  of  them  lovely  :  Julie  a  beautiful 
woman,  Fanny  an  angel.  Julie,  as  I  learned 
during  a  promenade  in  the  garden,  was  very 
happy.  She  loved  her  husband  from  her  heart, 
because  of  his  noble  feeling ;  but  for  her  broth- 
er-in-law, the  Scarlet  Coat,  she  had  the  tender, 
unmeasured  reverence  of  a  child.  He  had  trav- 
elled, she  said,  for  a  long  time,  and  now  was 
living  on  a  small  estate  in  Poland,  near  the 
lands  of  her  husband,  engagedin  the  philosophy 
of  well-doing,  and  busying  himself  with  his 
books,  and  with  agriculture.  She  spoke  of  him 
with  a  certain  enthusiasm,  and  declared  that  no 
nobler  man  lived  upon  the  earth.  I  made  the 
reflection  from  this  statement  that  one  must  not 
trust  physiognomy  too  much. 

"Why  did  you  ask  in  Prague,"  I  said,  after- 
wards, to  the  worthy  Scarlet  Coat;  "why  did 
you  use  the  mysterious  words,  '  Do  you  know 
me  now  and  what  I  want  of  you  ? '  These  same 
words  impressed  me  much  in  Prague,  and  after- 
wards they  came  to  me  in  a  different  way,  in  my 
dream." 


282  £scbokfce's  Gales 

"  Why  !  Goodness  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  wished  to 
tell  you,  when  I  brought  the  pocket-book,  what 
I  wanted,  and  I  wished  to  suggest  to  you  that 
I  was  the  finder,  so  that  you  might  have 
confidence  in  me,  and  give  me  some  indica- 
tion of  your  loss  ;  but  you  were  reserved,  as 
though  I  was  a  suspicious  man,  and  yet  I 
saw  that  you  were  disquieted,  and  could  not 
doubt  that  you  were  the  very  man  I  was  look- 
ing for. ' ' 

Then  I  related  to  him  my  dream. 

"Good,  sir!  Long  live  Walpurgis  spirits! 
This  dream  deserves  to  be  a  chapter  in  moral 
philosophy  and  psychology.  If  you  do  not  write 
it  out  to  the  smallest  detail,  I  myself  will  tran- 
scribe it,  and  send  you  the  thing  in  print. 
There  are  wonderful  golden  lessons  in  it,  and  it 
is  pleasant  to  me  that  at  the  end  I  appear  to 
shine  as  an  angel  of  light.  Otherwise  I  would 
not  care  to  hear  further  of  the  adventures  of 
your  Walpurgis  Night." 

We  came  to  the  end  of  a  very  pleasant  day, 
I  with  the  truly  wise  Mannteuffel,  Fanny  with 
Julie. 

At  evening,  when  we  were  to  part  one  from 
the  other,  we  accompanied  our  guests  to  the 
door  of  the  post-house. 

Fanny  said  to  me:  "Here  we  say  farewell, 
and  do  not  accompany  the  beautiful  temptation 


THaalpurgig  IMgbt  283 

one  step  farther  !  The  Walpurgis  dream  con- 
tains also  good  instruction  for  me.  '  Do  you 
now  know,  my  dear  sir,  what  your  Fanny 
wishes  from  you '  3  " 

THE  END. 


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no  one  country,  but  they  must  be  received  with  enthusiasm 
wherever  art  and  literature  are  recognized." — Albany  Argus. 

V.— Book  of  British  Ballads.  Edited  by  S. 
C.  Hall.  A  fac-simile  of  the  original  edition. 
With  illustrations  by  Creswick,  Gilbert,  and 
others $i  50 

"This  is  a  diminutive  fac-simile  of  the  original  very  valu- 
able edition.  .  .  .  The  collection  is  not  only  the  most  com- 
plete and  reliable  that  has  been  published,  but  the  volume 
is  beautifully  illustrated  by  skilful  artists." — Pittsburg 
Chronicle. 

"Probably  the  best  general  collection  of  our  ballad  literature, 
in  moderate  compass,  that  has  yet  been  made." — Chicago  Dial. 

VI. — The  Travels  of  Baron  Munchausen. 
Reprinted  from  the  early,  complete  edition.  Very 
fully  illustrated $1  25 

"The  venerable  Baron  Munchausen  in  his  long  life  has 
never  appeared  as  well-dressed,  so  far  as  we  know,  as  now  in 
this  goodly  company." 

"The  Baron's  stories  are  as  fascinating  as  the  Arabian 
Nights."— Church  Union. 


•Knickerbocker  Iftu&jets.  Hi 

VII. — Letters,  Sentences,  and  Maxims.  By 
Lord  Chesterfield.  With  a  critical  essay  by  C. 
A.  Sainte-Beuve $i  oo 

"  Full  of  wise  things,  quaint  things,  witty  and  shrewd 
things,  and  the  maker  of  this  book  has  put  the  pick  of  them 
all  togsther. — London  IVorld." 

"  Each  of  the  little  volumes  in  this  series  is  a  literary  gem." 
—  Christian  at  Work. 

VIIL— The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  By  Gold- 
smith.    With  32  illustrations  by  William  Mul- 

READY $1    OO 

"  Goldsmith's  charming  tale  seems  more  charming  than 
ever  in  the  dainty  dress  of  the  Knickerbocker  Nuggets 
series.  These  little  books  are  a  delight  to  the  eye,  and  their 
convenient  form  and  size  make  them  most  attractive  to  all 
book-lovers." — The  Writer,  Boston. 

"A  gem  of  an  edition,  well  made,  printed  in  clear,  read- 
able type,  illustrated  with  spirit,  and  just  such  a  booklet  as, 
when  one  has  it  in  his  pocket,  makes  all  the  difference  be- 
tween solitude  and  loneliness." — Independent. 

IX. — Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.  By  Thomas 
Babington  Macaulay.  Illustrated  by  George 
Scharf $1  00 

44  The  poems  included  in  this  collection  are  too  well  known 
to  require  that  attention  should  be  drawn  to  them,  but  the 
beautiful  setting  which  they  receive  in  the  dainty  cover  and 
fine  workmanship  of  this  series  makes  it  a  pleasure  even  to 
handle  the  volume." — Yale  Literary  Magazine. 

X. — The  Rose  and  the  Ring-.  By  William  M. 
Thackeray.  With  the  author's  illustrations.  $1  25 

11  The  Rose  and  the  Ring,  by  Thackeray,  is  reproduced 
with  quaint  illustrations,  evidently  taken  from  the  author's 
Own  handiwork."—  Rochester  Post-Express. 


Ifcnfcfeerbocfcer  mulcts. 


XI. — Irish  Melodies  and  Songs.  By  Thomas 
Moore.     Illustrated  by  Maclise    .         .         $i   50 

*'  The  latest  issue  is  a  collection  of  Thomas  Moore's  Irish 
Melodies  and  Songs,  fully  and  excellently  illustrated,  with 
each  page  of  the  text  printed  within  an  outline  border  of 
appropriate  green  tint,  embellished  with  emblems  and  figures 
fitting  the  text." — Boston  Times. 

XII. — Undine  and  Sintram.  Ey  De  La  Mottb 
Fouque.     Illustrated      .         .         .         .         $1  00 

"  Undine  and  Sintram  are  the  latest  issue,  bound  in  one 
volume.  They  are  of  the  size  classics  should  be — pocket 
volumes — and  nothing  more  desirable  is  to  be  found  among 
the  new  editions  of  old  treasures." — San  Jose" Mercury. 

XIII.— The  Essays  of  Elia.  By  Charles 
Lamb.     Two  vols.  .         .         .         .        $2  00 

"The  genial  essayist  himself  could  have  dreamed  of  no 
more  beautiful  setting  than  the  Putnams  have  given  the 
Essays  of  Elia  by  printing  them  among  their  Knickerbocker 
Nuggets." — Chicago  Advance. 

XIV.— Tales  from  the  Italian  Poets.  By 
Leigh  Hunt.     Two  vols.      .         .        .        $2  00 

"The  perfection  of  artistic  bookmaking."— San  Francisco 
Chronicle. 

"  This  work  is  most  delightful  literature,  which  finds  a 
fitting  place  in  this  collection,  bound  in  volumes  of  striking 
beaut y." — Troy  Times. 

"Hunt  had  just  that  delightful  knowledge  of  the  Italian 
poets  that  one  would  most  desire  for  one's  self,  together  with 
an  exquisite  style  of  his  own  wherein  to  make  his  presentation 
of  them  to  English  readers  perfect."—  New  York  Critic. 

The  first  series,  comprising  the  foregoing 
eighteen  volumes,  in  handsome  case,     $19.00 


tfmicfcerbocfcer  Iftuggets. 


XV.— Thoughts  of  the  Emperor  Marcus 
Aurelius  Antoninus.  Translated  by  George 
Long $i  oo 

"  The  thoughts  of  the  famous  Roman  are  worthy  of  a  new 
introduction  to  the  army  of  readers  through  a  volume  so 
dainty  and  pleasing." — Intelligencer. 

tk  As  a  book  for  hard  study,  as  a  book  to  inspire  reverie,  as 
a  book  for  five  minutes  or  an  hour,  it  is  both  delightful  and 
profitable." — Journal  of  Education. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  little  book,  and  we  feel  indebted  to. the 
translator  for  this  presentation  of  his  work." — Presbyterian. 

XVI. — i^Esop's  Fables.  Rendered  chiefly  from 
original  sources.  By  Rev.  Thomas  James,  M.A. 
With  ioo  illustrations  by  John  Tenniell.     $i  25 

"  It  is  wonderful  the  hold  these  parables  have  had  upon 
the  human  attention  ;  told  to  children,  and  yet  of  no  less 
interest  to  men  and  women." — Chautauqua  Herald. 

"  For  many  a  long  day  nothing  has  been  thought  out  or 
worked  out  so  sure  to  prove  entirely  pleasing  to  cultured 
book -lovers." — The  Bookmaker. 

"  These  classic  studies  adorned  with  morals  were  never 
more  neatly  prepared  for  the  public  eye." — The  Milwaukee 
Wisconsin. 

XVII. — Ancient  Spanish  Ballads.  Historic 
and  Romantic.  Translated,  with  notes,  by  J.  G. 
Lockhart.  Reprinted  from  the  revised  edition 
of  1 841,  with  60  illustrations  by  Allan,  Roberts, 
Simson,  Warren,  Aubrey,  and  Harvey.    $i  50 

"A  mass  of  popular  poetry  which  has  never  yet  received 
the  attention  to  which  it  is  entitled." — Boston  Journal  of 
Education. 

41  The  historical  and  artistic  settings  of  these  mediaeval 
poetic  gems  enhance  the  value  and  attractiveness  of  the 
Gook." — Buffalo  Chronicle  Advocate. 


vi  Iftnickerbocker  IRugcjets. 

XVIII.— The  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Sydney 
Smith.  A  selection  of  the  most  memorable  pas- 
sages in  his  Writings  and  Conversations  .         $i  oo 

XIX. — The  Ideals  of  the  Republic;  or, 
Great  Words  from  Great  Americans.  Com- 
prising  :  "  The  Declaration  of  Independence,  1776"; 
"The  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  1779"; 
"  Washington's  Circular  Letter,  1783,"  etc.     $1  00 

XX. — Selections  from  Thomas  De  Quincey. 
Comprising:  "On  Murder  Considered  as  One  of 
the  Fine  Arts";  Three  Memorable  Murders"; 
"The  Spanish  Nun."     .         .         ,         .         $1  00 

XXI. — Tales  by  Heinrich  Zschokke.  Com- 
prising :  "A  New  Year's  Eve";  "The  Broken 
Pitcher";  "Jonathan  Frock";  "A  Walpurgis 
Night."  Translated  by  Parke  Godwin  and 
William  P.  Prentice  .        .        .        .        $1  00 

XXII. — American  War  Ballads.  A  selection 
of  the  more  noteworthy  of  the  Ballads  and  Lyrics 
which  were  produced  during  ihe  Revolution,  the 
War  of  1812,  the  Mexican  War,  and  the  Civil  War. 
Edited,  with  notes,  by  Geo  Cary  Eggleston. 
With  original  illustrations.     Two  vols.    .         $2  50 

XXIII. — The  Autobiography  of  Benjamin 
Franklin.  Edited,  with  notes,  by  John  Bige- 
Low $1  00 

XXIV. — Songs  of  Fairy  Land.  Compiled  by 
Edward  T.  Mason,  with  illustrations  from  designs 
by  Maud  Humphrey    .        .        .        .        $1  25 


Knickerbocker  tfhigaets.  vii 

XXV. — Sesame  and  Lilies.  By  John  Rus- 
kin         ...  $i  oo 

XXVI. — The  Garden,  as  considered  in  literature 
by  certain  polite  writers.  Edited  by  Walter  Howe, 
with  portrait  of  William  Kent         .         .         $i  oo 

XXVII.— The  Boyhood  and  Youth  of  Goethe. 
Comprising  the  first  thirteen  books  of  his  Autobiog- 
raphy ("Truth  and  Poetry  from  my  own  Life"). 
Two  vols.         .         .         .         .         .         .         $2  oo 

XXVIII.—  The  Sayings  of  Poor  Richard. 
Being  the  Prefaces,  Proverbs,  and  Poems  of  Benja- 
min Franklin,  originally  printed  in  Poor  Richard's 
Almanacs  for  1733-1758.  Collected  and  Edited  by 
Paul  L.  Ford.     With  portrait  of  Franklin.   $1  00 

XXIX. — Love  Poems  of  Three  Centuries. 
Compiled  by  Jessie  F.  O'Donnell.  Two  vols.  $200 

XXX.— Chesterfield's  Letters.  Second 
Series.  Letters  of  Philip  Dormer,  Fourth  Earl  of 
Chesterfield,  to  his  Godson  and  Successor.  Now 
first  edited  from  the  originals,  with  a  Memoir  of 
Lord  Chesterfield  by  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon.  With 
portraits  and  illustrations.     Two  vols.     .         $2  00 

XXXI. — Representative  Irish  Stories.  Com- 
piled, with  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  W.  B.  Yeats. 
Two  vols.         .         .         .         .         .         .         $2  00 

XXXII.— French  Ballads.  Printed  in  the 
original  text.  Edited  by  Prof.  T.  F.  Crane. 
Illustrated $1  50 

XXXIII. — Eothen.  Pictures  of  Eastern 
Travel.     By  W.  A.  Kinglake.       .        .    $1  qq 


•fanfcfcerbocfcer  ftlugcjets. 


XXXIV.— Stories  from  the  Arabian  Nights. 
Selected  and  edited  by  Stanley  Lane-Poole,  with 
additions  newly  translated  from  the  Arabic.  Three 
volumes.  Each  volume  contains  a  frontispiece  in 
photogravure  and  other  designs        .         .         $3  00 

XXXV. — A  Selection  from  the  Discourses  of 
Epictetus;  with  the  Encheiridion.  Translated 
by  George  Long $1  00 

XXXVI. — Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia.  By 
Samuel  Johnson $1  00 

XXXVIL— Cranford.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  $i  00 

XXXVIII. —German  Ballads.  Printed  in  the 
original  text.  Edited  by  Prof.  II.  S  White. 
Illustrated       .  ...        $1  5c 

XXXIX.— Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Charles 
Lamb.  A  selection  from  Lamb's  Letters  and 
Essays,  together  with  Anecdotes  by  his  Friends. 
Compiled  by  Ernest  D.  North     .         .         $1  00 

XL. — Whist  Nuggets.  Papers  about  Whist 
and  Whist-Players.  Compiled  by  W.  G.  Mc- 
GUCKIN $1    OO 

XLI. — The  Iliads  of  Homer.  Translated  from 
the  Greek,  by  George  Chapman.  With  a  full 
series  of  illustrations  from  Flaxman's  designs  and 
from  Greek  vases.  3  vols.,  uniform  with  the 
"Ballad"  volumes  of  the  Nuggets         .         $3  75 

XLII. —Selections    from   the    Spirit   of  the 
Age,  or  Contemporary  Portraits.    By  William 
Hazlitt.     Edited  with  an  introduction  by  Regi- 
nald Brimley  Johnson.     Cloth  .        .        $1  00 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS,  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


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